Dipper Steps Up
by William Easley
Summary: An AU to my own AU, courtesy of fairlyoddfan 2010: What if as a high-school freshman Dipper had been persuaded to go out not for track, but for baseball? And of course Mabel has designs on a teammate...
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: This is not in my ongoing continuity; fairlyoddfan2010, a baseball enthusiast, suggested the idea for this one and is helping with all the baseball details. What if Dipper had not gone out for track, but baseball? So this story is an AU to, uh, my own AU. Hope you like it!_

 **Dipper Steps Up**

 **(Piedmont, California, 2013)**

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

High school wasn't going to be as much fun as middle school had. That's what Mabel had decided on September 4, the Tuesday that she and Dipper first reported to Piedmont High School.

To begin with, they didn't have the same schedules, as they had in middle school. Oh, sure, they had Miss Othmayer for Home Room at the same time every morning, and then they went on to Mr. Rebozo's English 1 class, and they also had Algebra 1 together, along with American History, and they even ate lunch together at 12:20. After lunch, though, Dipper went on to his classes, Mabel went to hers, and they wouldn't see each other again until the bell rang at 3:30 to end the school day.

Normally that would send them to find their bus home, but on the first day of classes, Mom had said she'd come by to pick them up around 3:45 or so. Mabel and Dipper had agreed to meet at the picnic tables overlooking the baseball diamond, and now she sat there kicking her heels—her art class had ended a little early, and she'd checked out.

Down on the field, kids were gathering and tossing a ball around, and Mabel had her eye on a tall, handsome blond kid. Of course, she didn't know him—heck, she hardly knew anyone at the new school, because it was so much bigger than her middle school that the students she had known the year before were all scattered through the population there, and she didn't have classes with many of them.

Mabel decided that Dipper would see her when he came out—he was probably packing up stuff from his locker—so she walked down the hill and stood outside the chain-link fence, where a few other guys and girls were watching the practice.

"Hi," another girl, dark-haired and smiling, said to her. "You a freshman?"

"Yup," Mabel said. "Mabel Pines. You?"

"Me, too," the girl said. "Rashanda Gilloway. My brother's going out for baseball, so I'm watching."

"Who's the tall guy pitching?" Mabel asked.

Rashanda glanced at the field. "Him? His name's Chuck Taylor. He's a sophomore. This is the JV team try-outs, you know."

"The what with the which now?"

Rashanda laughed. "Junior varsity. Just freshmen and sophomores. Coach Waylund is the coach. Chuck will be the team captain, I'm pretty sure."

An adult—Coach Waylund, Mabel presumed—blew a whistle and yelled, "Settle down, settle down! We'll start in five minutes! Everyone here's wanting to try out for the JV, right?"

The boys sent up a mixed chorus of "Yeah!" "Woohoo!" and "Right." Just then Mabel saw Dipper up at the top of the rise, near the picnic tables. She pulled out her phone and dialed—not Dipper, but Mom.

She answered on the first ring: "Yes, Mabel, I'm about to drive to the school."

"No, no!" Mabel said. "Listen, Mom, the most exciting news in history! Dipper's gonna try out for the baseball team! We'll call when tryouts are over. Love you, bye!" With Mom it was always better to cut phone conversations short before any questions could begin.

Mabel put her phone away and waved. "Hey, Dipper! Come on! Hurry!"

Dipper caught sight of her, hurried down the concrete steps, and approached with a quizzical expression. "Mabel, what are you doing down here? Mom will miss us—"

"Hey Coach!" Mabel yelled, waving both arms. "Here's your new quarterback!"

"Wait, what?" Dipper asked as the guys on the diamond started laughing. Mabel shoved him to the gate in the chain-link fence and pushed him through. "You gotta try out!" she said. "Do it for me!" And she did that big-eye thing that nearly always got him in trouble.

The coach, a tall, muscular guy with a deep tan and a broad chin, said, "Well, get over here! Settle, settle! Listen up! Here's how we're going to do this!"

Dipper gave Mabel a despairing look, but he sat on the grass like the others as Coach Waylund introduced himself and briefly spoke of his hopes and plans—"We were pretty lousy last year, guys! Anyone remember our record? Taylor?"

"Fourteen for twenty-four," the boy said. He was taller than Dipper—taller than anyone but Waylund—blond, and athletic.

"Won fourteen, lost ten," Waylund said. "I am not happy with that record. So this year we're gonna better it! Here's the drill for this afternoon."

He went on to detail the tryouts: First a few minutes of introductions, then timed base-running. Next, infielding practice—each guy would take a turn as a baseman or shortstop, and Waylund would hit five balls to each one's territory, a mixture of flies and grounders. They'd rotate positions to let four other guys try out. Then they'd do the same for the outfield positions. Next would come batting—some guys would play the field, while the rest took turns in the batter's box, while Taylor pitched to them as they practiced hitting, bunting, and game-play. Finally would come pitching and catching practice, with each guy pitching seven balls and catching at least three.

Dipper tried to shrink, hoping to be overlooked, but no such luck. He milled around with the others, muttering that his name was Dipper and that he had no experience as a baseball player. When he introduced himself to Chuck Taylor, Mabel screamed from the sidelines: "That's my brother! He's gonna be a star!"

Taylor chuckled. "Is she your twin?" he asked.

"Yeah," Dipper said.

"Cool!" Taylor told him. "So what's your position?"

"Uh—vertical," Dipper said. When Taylor laughed, he added, "Seriously, I've never played ball. Just catch with Dad. I don't know what I'm doing here, except Mabel pushed me into it."

When the actual tryouts began, Waylund went alphabetically, giving Dipper a brief reprieve from going on the field and making a fool of himself. As he sat with the other guys waiting their turn, though, he noticed something: Some of the prospective players were really terrible. They missed easy fly balls, they stumbled over their own feet— _I won't be the worst one, anyhow,_ he thought.

He went to second base for the infield tryouts. Waylund was an expert at placing the ball just where he wanted it. Though each infielder had a chance at five hits, you couldn't predict which one would be the target for any one of them. The first hit to second was really easy, a gentle pop-up that Dipper caught in his borrowed glove with a plop. He tossed it back to Taylor on the pitcher's mound, and Taylor gave him a grin and a thumbs-up.

All in all, not too shabby: Dipper caught two out of three fly balls—better than some of the others—and scooped up both grounders. Waylund even said encouragingly, "Good hustle, Pines!" after the second one.

The outfield—well, it was more challenging, and he had less success. The high flies made him apprehensive, and the impact, even with the glove, stung his hand. However, though he missed as many as he caught, he did have a certain speed that got him into position more often than some of the other guys could manage.

And, as it turned out, he was one of the fastest base runners, both in running singles, doubles, and triples and in the total time. "Where'd you get that speed, Pines?" Waylund asked him after he'd done the totals.

"I spent most of the summer running from monsters," Dipper said, and the other guys hooted, thinking he'd made a smart-ass joke—but Waylund seemed to like the supposed humor, and he chuckled, too.

Batting was Dipper's worst performance. He successfully bunted a couple of times—but another kid told him, "You're telegraphing that you're gonna bunt. Watch the others for how to hide that."

But he was a lousy judge of ball position, swinging too early, getting foul tip-offs or whiffing the air. He got not one good solid hit the whole time. However, he wasn't alone on that—some kids actually did worse than he did, one of them even failing to make a bunt for two times running.

Afterward, Waylund said, "Good effort, guys. Now, not all of you are gonna make the cut. That's not saying you're no good—it might just be that baseball's not your sport. Some of the ones who do are gonna spend a lot of time on the bench this season—but every player is a member of my team, and I'll play you all at least some of the time. That's it for this afternoon. Those who made the cut, I'll post the list tomorrow in the gym. I'll want you for practice beginning Thursday, same time, same place. Dismissed!"

The group broke up into chattering bunches of three or four, and Dipper started to plod off the diamond. Chuck Taylor slapped his back. "You didn't do so bad, Dipper. I think you'll be on the team."

"I doubt it," Dipper said.

"Hi, brobro!" Mabel said, smiling so that her braces flashed in the afternoon sun. "Won't you introduce me to your handsome friend?"

Dipper sighed. He'd suspected something like that. "Mabel, this is Chuck Taylor, the pitcher. Chuck, this is my twin sister Mabel."

"Hi," Chuck said. "I think Dipper made the team! Glad to meet you."

"Ooh!" Mabel said. "It's hot out here on the athletic field, or is that just you? I'm gonna come to every game to cheer you on!"

"We need spectators," Chuck said, laughing. "Last year a lot of the time we played to nearly empty bleachers."

"I'll round up a posse!" Mabel promised.

"Gotta run," Chuck said. "My dad's picking me up."

"Speaking of which," Dipper said.

"Already called Mom," Mabel told him.

"Mabel, this was a bad idea," Dipper said as they trudged up the steps to the school. "I'm not an athlete. I humiliated myself out there."

"No, you didn't!" Mabel punched his arm. "You were better than some and not as good as others. So what! Everything needs a middle! What's a hamburger without the beef? A tomato sandwich! Yuck!"

"I'm not sure what you're driving at," Dipper said. They went around to the front, and he saw their mom just turning into the loading area.

"Isn't it obvious?" Mabel asked. She ran to the family car and threw open the front door. "Hey, Mom!" she yelled. "Dipper an' me want to stop for hamburgers!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Dipper Steps Up**

 **(Piedmont, California, 2013)**

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

Thursday morning Mabel and Dipper stepped off the bus with six minutes to go until the homeroom bell—but instead of reporting to the classroom, Mabel went barreling through the crowded halls, out the back door, and to the gym. Dipper had no idea of what she was up to.

Until she burst into homeroom exactly five seconds before the bell rang, thrust her arms up in the air in a Rocky-at-the-top-of-the-steps pose, and shouted, "Announcement! My brother Dipper made the baseball team! And my boyfriend Chuck Taylor is gonna be team captain!"

Immediately the students as one person greeted her news flash with a thunderous round of complete apathy. These are high-school freshmen we're talking about here.

The bell rang, and Mabel slipped into her desk beside Dipper. "You didn't have to do that!" he whispered in a fierce undertone.

"Yeah, I did! Wait'll lunch! Then _everybody_ will know!"

The teacher took attendance, passed out the lunch menus—you were supposed to pick out which of two entrées you wanted, plus beverage and sides, but it was sort of Chinese-menu style, pick one from Column A, two from Column B, and one from Column C and so on, and Mabel complained that was unfair. She had been checking everything, though so far, she had been served the first entrée, the first two sides, and the first beverage she'd checked.

Dipper said that was what she deserved, but Mabel maintained she was educating her palate, which needed it, since she still had an obsession with trying to eat everything from chalk to wood shavings, just on an experimental basis.

After roll call, they watched the ten-minute video feed from the office, run by students (Mabel dearly wanted to audition and land an anchor spot, but you couldn't until you'd been in school for one full term and carried an A average). The sports announcer said only, "The baseball roster for JV has been posted in the gym," and Mabel jumped up yelling, "That's my brother he's talking about!"

Maybe it was fortunate that their home-room teacher, Miss Othmayer, was only a few years from retirement and also, as she had said while introducing herself on the first day, the daughter of a couple who met at Woodstock, wherever that was. Whatever, she seemed very easy-going and accepting.

That afternoon Dipper learned that he would have practice twice a week during the fall, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. High-school baseball season began in February, so after Christmas they'd step up their practice days and would play every other Friday or Saturday—and sometimes two weeks in a row. To his surprise, Dipper's position, at least to begin with, would be second baseman. Well, second-string second baseman. Maybe he'd get to play a few innings. The guys socialized a little, and Dipper got to know some of them.

The JV was light on sophomores that year—just four out of sixteen. One was Xavier Eager, first-string catcher, a guy whose grandparents had come from the Phillippines and who was a good-humored, joke-cracking boy even shorter than Dipper. Everybody called him "X-Man." "Hi-Ho" was the first-string center fielder. Dipper had to ask Chuck Taylor about his real name, because the big, gangly redhead—a little like Wendy Corduroy's big brother, but a heck of a lot slimmer—was somebody everyone already knew, and he'd earned his nickname by his greeting to everybody else: "Hi-ho, Dipperino!" He was really Gordon Hathaway. Chuck himself, first-string pitcher, was the third sophomore, and the last was Wyatt Wilson, called "Dub" because, Dipper learned, he said everything double and was pessimistic: "We got a lousy team this year, guys. We got a lousy team."

All the other twelve, including Dipper, were freshmen. After some uncomfortable hesitation, Dipper finally confessed that his first name was Mason. X-Man thought about that and said, "So we'll call you Bricklayer!"

Chuck came to the rescue: "Nah, he's got a good nickname already. He's Dipper."

And that was that.

* * *

They did batting and fielding practice that day. Dipper didn't get a chance to shine as second-baseman, but he did catch two infield fly balls, and he assisted in the practice's one and only double-play, fielding a grounder to his left, stepping on second, and firing the ball to Mike Monahan at first for the play. That earned him some congratulations.

His mom picked him up after practice, and Mabel—who'd caught the bus—waited to jump him at home: "How'd you do? How was Chuck? Did he say anything about me? Did he miss me? I'm gonna watch next Tuesday! What should I wear? Does he have a favorite color?"

"Whoa!" Dipper said. "Look, don't get too far ahead of yourself! You're not his girlfriend!"

"Yes, I am!" she said. "He just doesn't know it yet. He had a girlfriend last year, but back in the summer her dad got a job as a computer systems expert with Disney World, and she and her family moved three thousand miles away to Orlando, Florida! He's ripe for the picking, Brobro! What's that?"

Dipper held up the sheet of paper. "List of equipment I need to get. I'm just planning on the minimum. This will be expensive."

She yanked the paper from his hand. "Leave it to Mabel!"

And he suspected that he would have to.

* * *

Mr. Pines, much to Dipper's surprise, reacted with Mabel-level enthusiasm to the news that Dipper was the newest member of the high-school team. Mabel confiscated his list of supplies.

Then on Friday night she went online and began to read up on what the really stylish baseball player would be wearing that season and she added to the list . . . and added to the list . . . and added to the list. By the time she finished, she had more than doubled the length of the initial handout.

That was why, the following Saturday morning—without bothering to tell Dipper—Dad and Mabel snuck away to Bayside Mall, where the big MegaSports store was. "It'll be fun surprising him!" Mabel told her father. "We'll make him look sharp, and that'll really impress Chu—I mean Coach Waylund! This'll guarantee that he gets off the bench more!"

"I'm not so sure about that," Dad told her, smiling. "But like chicken soup for a broken leg, it couldn't hurt!"

So they parked in the sprawling lot and made their way into the mall and to the huge two-level sports store. "Oh, boy!" Mabel said as they stood in the wide first-floor entrance, her eyes sparking at the sight of thousands of square feet of brightly colored merchandise from anoraks to Z-straps and everything in between. "Get out your credit card, Dad! We're going _shopping_!"

The first thing on the list was "Athletic cup." Mabel got a little bit indignant when she found the display. "How's anybody supposed to drink out of that thing?" she said. "Let's get a bigger one! With a handle! And that won't even stand straight on a table! It'd _spill_!"

"Um, it's not really for drinking," her dad told her. "And it's sort of personal, so if you want to go look for some of the other stuff on the list, I'll pick up this and the underwear."

But Mabel tagged along, and when she saw how the cup would fit into a pocket in the underwear, she said, "Oh! My mistake!" But then she wanted to know, "How come the shorts are so long? They should be called _longs_!"

"Princess, these are called sliding shorts. Dipper may need to slide into base," Dad explained. "These give a little protection against getting your legs scraped up. I'll get him a couple of pairs, and a cup for each one."

The school would furnish the basic uniform, but getting a higher-quality jersey and pants was optional, as long as the design was the standard Piedmont one (which the store stocked), and Mabel took advantage of that, picking out two blue-pinstriped light-gray splitter jerseys with Dipper's name and number on the back in dark blue:

PINES

12

Those had to be embroidered and wouldn't be ready for a week, but Mabel forged ahead. She added a couple of pairs of boot-cut game pants and a Navy-blue baseball cap with the team logo and name printed on it in gold. And batting gloves. And a batting helmet. And long-sleeved undershirts. And stirrup socks (the clerk said, "These are what give a player the look of a real pro.") And a pricey stick of Midnight Big League Eyeblack ("Makeup for hunks!" she exclaimed). And enough to cause Dad to start to experience sticker shock.

Mabel wanted to buy an extremely expensive pair of cleated baseball shoes, but Dad finally drew the line. "Dipper will have to come in for those," he said firmly. "The fit's important. He has to try them on."

"I can do that for him!" Mabel objected. "We have twin feet!"

"Not close enough," Dad insisted. "Shoes are pretty personal. And anyway, those are red, black, and gray, and the list says black and white."

It was a bit of a battle, but in the end Mabel surrendered and had to content herself with the couple of hundred dollars' worth of equipment they had rounded up so far. Ah, but then the biggest purchase of all—

"This is a beautiful glove!" Mabel yelled. "Let's buy it for Dipper!"

"Um, no," Dad said. "For three good reasons. First, it costs over four hundred dollars. Second, this one is for an adult. Third, it's a catcher's mitt."

"But he deserves the best!"

"He needs a glove that will fit, and one that suits his position," Dad said firmly. "Here you can help. Your hands are really about the same size as his. Let's look at infielder gloves. Now, for second base, he'll need a pretty shallow glove, I-web, single-post."

Mabel tilted her head. "I have no idea what any of that means."

"It means one like one of these," Dad said, showing her a display of infielder gloves. "Let's try this one."

Mabel happily tried on gloves until they settled on an eleven-inch one as being about the right size for Dipper. It cost only a tenth of what Mabel's first suggestion did, so Dad looked relieved when the clerk finally rang up the purchase—though he did have to swallow hard before signing the credit-card receipt.

Dipper opened all the packages with widening eyes and an expression that fluttered between surprise and shock. "Dad!" he said. "I don't mean to go into baseball as a _career_!"

"Get dressed get dressed get dressed!" Mabel yelled.

He had to give in. He felt silly in his new baseball uniform (though he wore the practice jersey the coach had handed out, since the real one wouldn't be ready for a while). With the stiff glove on his left hand—"You'll have to break it in," his dad explained—he stood in the backyard and let Mabel talk him into posing as though he were about to catch a fly ball. She took a couple of photos, wasn't satisfied, and ran into the house.

"OK," she said, "stand still! Warpaint!"

Well—eyeblack ideally should be applied in short stripes beneath the eyes. It really isn't necessary to add tiger stripes and whiskers, but Mabel did.

And, of course, that was the photo that she decided to post on Peoplebook for all the world to see.

Dipper began to dread going to school next Monday morning. . . .


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Dipper made two discoveries when Monday arrived: First, high-school freshmen were so determined not to be impressed by anything that, though some of them had seen Mabel's photo of him, the general reaction in home room was "Meh. I've seen funnier." The second discovery was that some of his teammates did give him strange looks.

One of them, sharing a table with Dipper during lunch period—Jayden Dufresne (or J.D.; he was the one guy on the team who didn't seem to think Dipper's real first name was odd)—said, "Dude, I saw the picture your sister posted online. Cut way down on the eyeblack, 'kay?"

"She put that on my face," Dipper confessed, his cheeks feeling hot. "It's kind of hard to tell Mabel not to do something. Well, and have it stick, anyway."

At that point Mabel, tray in hand, joined them at the table, sliding onto the seat next to Dipper. She was wearing a brand-new sweater, a Navy blue one embroidered with a baseball bat and ball. She nudged Dipper. "Hey, Broseph!" Then she blinked at J.D. "Ooh, you made the team too! I recognize you from tryouts. Dip, introduce us!"

So Dipper did, and Mabel, in between shoveling food in as though she were stoking a steam engine with coal, said, "J.D., huh? What position didja get?" Crumbs flew when she pronounced "position."

"Left field," J.D. said, watching her eat with a fascinated gaze. "I was kinda lucky to get it 'cause I'm just a fresh—"

Mabel stretched her arm across in front of Dipper. "Hey, J.D., you gonna eat that apple? No? I claim it!" She snatched it off his tray. "Freshman, huh? Do you know anything about Chuck Taylor, other than he's dreamy?"

J.D. blinked. "Drea—uh no, no I don't, I just met him for the first time at tryouts and practice. He, uh, well, I know that everybody likes him."

"No wonder, am I right?" Mabel said, crunching into the apple for emphasis. "Hey, Dip, it's OK for me to come and watch you practice tomorrow, isn't it?"

"No," Dipper said. "Practice is top-secret, because, uh, Coach doesn't want anybody stealing our plays."

"What?" J.D. asked, sounding surprised. "That's not true!"

"Ah-hah!" Mabel laughed, dribbling a little chewed-up apple as she did. "My brother is such a kidder!" She gave Dipper's shoulder a shove, making him swallow some milk the wrong way. He coughed it out through his nose, mostly. "And a sloppy eater! Don't worry, Dipper, I'll be there, cheering you on. Hey—is there a baseball cheerleading squad?"

"Uh, no," J.D. said. "Never has been."

"There will be from now on!" Mabel vowed. "Uh-oh! Gotta run. I hate these short lunch periods! See you on the bus, Brobro. And I will see _you_ on the baseball field tomorrow, J.D. TDLFN!" She swept up her cleaned lunch tray—she hadn't even left an apple core-and swooped off to return it.

"Wow," J.D. said. "Your sister is . . . I mean, she's . . . Mabel is . . . "

"I know, right?" Dipper said.

"Yeah." Then J.D. added, "Uh—what did she say? TD something?"

"T-D-L-F-N. Short for Too-Dle-Loo For Now," Dipper explained. "It's one of her ways of saying 'see you later.'"

"She left early, though. We still have, like, nearly ten minutes left for lunch," J.D. said.

"Not on Mabel time," Dipper told him. "She probably wants to get to her next class early to talk to some of her friends. It's hard to explain Mabel. My sister is sort of intense."

"Yeah," J.D. said. Then, sounding faintly surprised, he added, "I _like_ her."

Huh. Well, you couldn't explain things like that. Heck, Wendy had once liked Robbie Valentino, too, despite his obvious limitations as a human being.

Then again, no one claimed that Gravity Falls had a patent on human mysteries. People liking Mabel was like the Bottomless Pit. You had to admit it existed, but you couldn't explain it rationally.

* * *

The following afternoon Mabel did show up to watch practice. In fact, when Chuck blasted a home run over the left-field fence, she went running to retrieve the ball and after a short three-step run-up made a power throw all the way back to X-Man, the first-string second baseman.

On the bench, Coach Waylund asked Dipper, "Did your sister consider trying out?"

"Uh, no. I guess she's more artistic than sports-minded," Dipper told him.

Coach shook his head. "Too bad. Heck of an arm on the girl!"

Then Dipper had to step up to the plate to do his usual weak batting performance, popping out to Chuck on the third pitch.

All through the practice Mabel ran back and forth on the sidelines. She was the only spectator, and she continually gave out encouraging cheers and urged the team on—especially, Dipper noticed, whenever Chuck was on the mound or at bat.

Some of the other guys found her a little distracting—Bobby Adamsky, catching, got beaned by a pitch when he heard her yell, "Hey, catcher, that crouch really shows off your cute butt!"

Fortunately, Bobby's catcher's mask saved him from injury, though he looked a little upset. Coach Waylund kept chuckling, though, and he told the team, "Don't get rattled by a little thing like that, men. This is good practice for when you'll be playing and the spectators for the other team might razz you to try to shake you up. Keep your mind on the game and your eye on the ball!"

Wily Casen—the tallest player, known as "Big W"—muttered, "I'm more worried about where she's keepin' _her_ eyes!"

However, when practice was nearly over and Dipper was sharing the bench with Jon Jacobs ("Jon J"), the first-string first baseman, Jon said to him, "Man, I saw that picture Mabel posted of you and I was kinda mad at first, 'cause I thought you were sort of making fun of the idea of playing baseball with those crazy stripes and all, you know? But it was all her, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Dipper admitted.

Jon clapped him on the shoulder. "I got an older sister man. I feel you."

Jon went on to tell Dipper a little story about when he was six, and his sister, who was then ten, talked him into climbing into a shiny new galvanized-steel garbage can, just to see if he would fit.

"I did fit," Jon said. "And next thing I knew, she clamped the lid on, kicked the can over, and rolled me down a long hill. Thought I was gonna _die_ , man! She told me she wanted to show me what an astronaut feels like when a spaceship comes in for a rough landing."

"How _did_ you feel?" Dipper asked.

"Mad!"

At least, Dipper thought, as annoying as she could sometimes be, Mabel had never done anything quite that bad to him! Though prancing around outside the fence and yelling until she was hoarse came pretty close.

Thursday's practice was about the same, except that afterward Mabel brought a couple of cold sodas onto the field, one for Dipper, one for Chuck. Chuck looked at the can. "Pitt Cola?" he asked. "I've never heard of it!"

"It's real common in Oregon!" Mabel told him. "I brought back a whole case! Did Dipper tell you we like to go spend summers in Gravity Falls?"

"Uh—never heard of that, either," Chuck said, popping the soda.

"It's not on any map that I've seen," Dipper told him. "Before you drink that—"

"But it's the site of the world-famous Mystery Shack!" Mabel said.

"Oh. Uh. OK," Chuck said. "Uh, what is the Mystery Shack?"

Mabel punched his arm. "Now you get it! Bumper sticker! Bomp!"

"Uh," Dipper said, "Chuck, you ought to know that every can—"

Too late. Chuck shrugged and took a big swig of Pitt's and started coughing, nearly choking on the pit. He was a guy with guts, though. He spat out the pit and actually finished the soda without complaining.

But he politely told Mabel that since Pitt Cola was so rare in California, she should keep the rest of her case and not share it with him.

Soon baseball practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays just became a part of school routine for the Mystery Twins. The team progressed through September, October, and November, coming together, developing camaraderie, and improving their play. Finally, just before Thanksgiving, Coach Waylund told the guys, "You men are shaping up. Everybody still has work to do, but that's what we expect. Taylor, you want to explain the upcoming schedule?"

Chuck stood up. More and more, the coach was giving him responsibilities, and one was to organize practices and decide on what playing strategies and skills they needed to work on.

Another was to do things like, well, what he was doing: "We don't practice in December, guys—that's so we can concentrate on academics and finals. Everybody carrying at least a B average? Good! Keep it up so you'll qualify to play. Drop below a B, you'll be cut."

He waited out the inevitable moans and groans and then continued, "So, our first game will come up on February 15, home game against the Pico Padres. To get ready, we'll resume practice as soon as we get back from break in January, and we'll pick up the frequency—Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. We're also gonna take a look at some game videos from last year to see what we're up against."

"They're wussies, man!" Big W hooted.

But Chuck disagreed: "I hear that the Padres have like a half-and-half team, sophomores and freshmen, so they have an edge on us in experience, but we're getting pretty good. Next few days, I'm gonna talk to each of you one-on-one to suggest where you need improvement, things to work on in practice starting in January, but so far, guys—good work!"

Mabel, who was never far from the team, cheered while doing a triple cartwheel off to the side. Everybody grinned. They'd got used to having her around, and sometimes they called her the team mascot. She'd even brought a few other spectators around to watch them practice—now ten or fifteen people usually showed up, more than they'd ever had watch practice, according to Coach, though Dipper suspected they came mainly to witness Mabel's antics, not the team's efforts.

The only thing, the one dark cloud on the horizon—as far as Mabel was concerned anyway—was that Chuck so far had not asked her out or complimented her attractiveness or tried to smooch her or anything, really, except to be polite and to laugh when she made a joke and to chat with her now and then.

"I'm not discouraged, though," she assured Dipper that afternoon after practice while they waited for their mom to pick them up. "My spies tell me that Chuck still doesn't have a girlfriend. The field is clear! Next February I'm planning the big move! Wait'll that first game—Chuck Taylor won't even know what hit him!"

And knowing his sister, Dipper was inclined to agree. Chuck, he thought, should be afraid. Very afraid. . . .


	4. Chapter 4

**Dipper Steps Up**

 **(Piedmont, California, 2014)**

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

 **From the Journals of Dipper Pines:** _January 3, 2014: Well, here we are, back in Piedmont. It was nice to spend the week after Christmas in Gravity Falls with Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Ford, Soos, and Melody._

 _OK, OK, and Wendy. ESPECIALLY Wendy. She's been teasing me in her texts ever since she saw that awful picture of me on Peoplebook, but a couple days ago she said she wanted to have a serious talk with me: Was I sure I wanted to play baseball? Could I handle it if we didn't do so well? If I didn't get to play much would I be upset? Was I going to focus too much on the game and not enough on school?_

 _I told her she was talking like an adult, and she said, "Well, ya know, I'm getting' there, dude!" But we exchanged gifts (sorry, Mabel, but what we gave each other is still our secret. Yes, I know you sneak in and read this journal sometimes!), and I asked, "Are you still looking forward to us coming back next summer?" And she gave me a little shove and said, "Don't be a dork! You know I am!"_

 _So. . . . I guess we're still just friends, but I realized again, being there with her—and I finally got the courage to tell her this—I can't turn off the way I feel about her. She thinks that's sweet. But she brushed back my hair, smiled at me, and said, "I love your birthmark." Then she leaned close and whispered, "I'm still kinda old for you, dude."_

 _My heart beat a little faster, just because this time she said "kinda." Not "I'm too old for you. You know that," but KINDA! I know, I know, I'll hang my hope on anything. It's probably not realistic._

 _But maybe not totally unrealistic, because from what Wendy told us, Robbie's still tight with Tambry, and Wendy herself has no boyfriend, no serious one, anyway, and she hinted she might sort of be willing to wait for me to catch up. "Never dated a sports star," she teased me. "Might be fun to try if I got a chance. So—you guys win the pennant or you get to be like the most valuable player or whatever, and we just might go together to a dance or some junk when I see you again."_

 _So . . . now I have to learn to dance?_

 _I'll do it! Man, if I need to win a game single-handed, somehow I'll do that, too, and in the meantime I'll even get Mabel to teach me some dance moves—because NOW I'm motivated!_

* * *

It was easy to be motivated, coming right off a week with his friends (especially the red-headed one), but the next day when school started again, Dipper didn't feel so sure of himself.

In Piedmont, January is the rainiest month of the year, and that Monday was a dismal, wet one with low, ragged gray skies and cold rain drifting down either in showers or in wind-rippled sheets. The team couldn't practice on the swamped baseball field, so they went to a gym classroom and on a big flat screen they watched video of last season's Pico Padres in action.

Just seeing the footage intimidated Dipper. The Padres all looked taller, longer of leg and arm, and more muscular than almost anyone on the Piedmont team—Chuck Taylor and Wiley Casen were the only two Panthers that looked like they'd be even close to an even footing. Coach Waylund kept identifying Padres players from last year who were still on this year's team.

Dipper could see how good they were—a couple of power hitters, some fast runners, some agile and accurate fielders. "Oh, man," someone groaned when they saw a video of one of Piedmont's games against the Padres. It ended in the fifth inning—the Padres were ahead twelve to one, and if a team led by more than ten, the game was over at the end of the fifth, rather than going to the standard-for-JV seven innings.

"We are so dead," someone else moaned, thunking his head down on the desk.

"With that attitude, you may be," Coach said as he flicked on the lights. "Start noticing their weaknesses, not their strengths! Look at their guy Manello—power hitter, but a sucker for a low inside pitch! And Grobbert—yell at him as you run the bases, and he gets confused! In the game against Pemberton, a player got caught between second and third, so he rushed Pemberton and screamed "Look out!" and Pemberton flinched and missed catching the throw and the runner hit third standing up. Watch for things like that!"

* * *

It would have helped if they'd had more practice time, but gallons of rain fell that month, and they got in only one day on the field per week. They got back to two or three days in February, but when Saturday, the fifteenth, rolled around, Dipper didn't feel ready—and he was afraid the team wasn't, either. In fact, he secretly hoped for rain that day, but—just their luck—the day after Valentine's dawned bright and clear.

As they suited up in the locker room, the guys talked about girlfriends and Valentines. Taylor said, "I'm out of luck there. The girl I really liked moved to freakin' Florida! How about you, Dipper? Have a date yesterday?"

Dipper was putting on his cleats. "Uh, not exactly," he said. "I video-chatted with this girl I like a lot, but—not the same."

"She from around here?" Chuck asked.

"No. Remember Mabel told you we spend summers in Gravity Falls, up in Oregon? I met her there."

"Bummer. Gravity Falls. Weird name. Yeah, Mabel talks about it a lot, and, something funny, I happened to mention the place at dinner one night. Guess what? My great-great-something-granddad on my mother's side lived in that crazy town, like, more than a hundred and fifty years ago! In fact, Mom says he founded it."

 _Oh, no. No, it can't be._

"He had a weird name, too," Chuck went on, not noticing that Dipper had frozen in position with only one shoe on. "Nicholas Northwest? Something like that."

"Nathaniel?" Dipper asked.

"Yeah, that's it! One of his daughters moved to California and became my mom's great-great grandmother, I think. I mean, Mom doesn't even know for sure, but something like that. Anyhow, the Northwests supposedly got rich, but I guess they didn't want to have anything to do with us poor relations. The Gravity Falls Northwests still around?"

"I think so. That's a wild coincidence," Dipper said numbly, wondering why his mystery sense was tingling.

For a while he didn't have time to worry about it. When they went out to warm up, he saw Mabel. In a short blue skirt, a white top with the Panthers logo on it in gold and blue, knee-high white-and-blue socks, white sneakers, and—not one, but two pony tails, one on each side of her head, tied with blue-and-white ribbons. And pompons. There had to be pompons. One big, fluffy, and gold, and the other one big, fluffy, and blue. And Mabel was doing high kicks, somersaults, even splits.

The bleachers looked about half full of laughing spectators. Chuck whistled. "Man! I know this is the home field and all, but we never drew a crowd this big last year!" He slapped Dipper's shoulder. "Your sis is OK, dude! I think she'll bring us good luck!"

* * *

As the game started, Dipper warmed the bench and hoped that if they really were in for some luck, it would start soon.

But it didn't, not right away. Piedmont won the coin toss, and Chuck decided they'd take the field in the top of the first, so the guys who were playing trotted out to their positions. Dipper hunkered down on the bench, his glove in his lap, and tried not to hear Mabel shrieking, "Padres, Padres, gonna flop! Panthers, Panthers, we're the top! Gimme a Panther roar, people!" What she got was mostly a sustained laugh and some scattered cheers, but that didn't even slow her down.

Dipper glanced sideways and saw that Coach was grinning down at him. Dipper knew he must look sheepish.

But Coach just shrugged and said, "Don't worry, Pines. Mabel's brought in a crowd. Nice to have some spectators!"

Chuck's arm was in good shape. He struck out the first batter with four pitches—two strikes, a ball, and then a strike—and the next man in the batter's box popped out on his first pitch, the shortstop taking two quick steps to field the little looper. Then, seeming to gain confidence, Chuck fanned the next man, the big hitter Ricky Manello—though Manello protested the last low inside pitch, which he claimed missed the strike zone by an inch. The umpire politely disagreed, suggesting if Manello thought a pitch was too low, he probably shouldn't swing at it, and the Padres took the field.

At first it looked as if the bottom half would fly by just like the top: Mike Monohan took a good cut at a fast pitch and launched a pretty fair line drive, but the Padres shortstop, already tall, made a leap and snagged it. One out. Then Petey DeFoy, who had started out nearly as bad as Dipper at the plate but who had been hard at work on his batting all fall, took two strikes and two balls, but to the crowd's excitement, on the next pitch he made a solid connection. The left fielder misjudged it, it flew over the tip of his glove by a couple of inches, and by the time he'd scrambled around to grab the ball and fire it in, Petey was sliding into second, and Mabel was going nuts, like an AAA-cell battery-operated toy that had accidentally been plugged directly into a wall socket.

Chuck stepped up. The pitcher shook off a couple of suggestions from the catcher and pitched an outside ball. Then another. It looked as if he meant to walk Chuck, but then the pitcher threw one that would have just clipped the outside edge of the strike zone if Chuck hadn't swung on it and sent it past the first baseman and skipping along the first-base line. He made it to first while the right fielder fielded it and threw to second for the relay to home, holding Petey at third.

Now the bench guys all leaned forward, chanting, "Go! Go! Go!"

Jayden Dufresne, like Dipper a freshman, was a muscular, above-average cleanup man, and Mabel chanted, "One, two, one-two-three! Hit a homer now, JD!"

He grinned at her and gave her a salute before stepping into the box. The pitcher looked grumpy as he went into a windup. He drilled in an excellent fastball—and JD, the heavy hitter, bunted!

That was all Petey needed. He slid into home plate, though the catcher, a fraction of a second too late to tag him, turned and fired the ball to first, just barely putting J.D. out. And then, unfortunately David Barbour—"Barb"—struck out after two strikes, two balls, and two fouls.

The second inning was fast and scoreless for both teams. Dipper kept looking back at the scoreboard, as if the Panthers' 1 would suddenly evaporate. He began to hope that he might have a chance on the field this game. It was early in the season, they were ahead—well, just barely ahead—and maybe things would fall right for him.

And they did in the next inning. Coach looked thoughtful as the Padres' seventh and eighth batters both reached base on singles. He signaled Chuck to call for a change and said, "Pines, take second. Renaldo, you're in at first. Don't get shook up just because this is your first game, guys. Remember your practice!"

Dipper took over second from X-Man, who in passing said, "Luck, Dip!" and Tom-Tom Renaldo replaced Monohan at first. Dipper got into position and tried to concentrate over Mabel's glass-shattering "Dipper! Dipper! There's no doubt! He's the man to put them out!"

He tried to gulp back some butterflies that seemed to be trying hard to flutter out of his stomach and pass up his gullet and escape from his mouth. It wasn't a hot day, but suddenly the sun seemed glaring and he felt a little dizzy. _Get a grip, get a grip, be in the game._

The next batter whiffed the first pitch, took the second for a called strike, and then swung on the third, getting a piece of it—it was going to come down a few feet behind second! Dipper backpedaled, jumped, caught the ball—and it stayed in the pocket of his glove!—and was running in mid-air before his feet hit ground again. The runner on second had bolted for third, realized what happened, reversed, and made a dash back to the base—but Dipper's monster-running practice got him there a heartbeat faster, and he tagged the Padres player out—an unassisted double play!

And the crowd went crazy! Well, be fair, Mabel, mainly, went crazy. But Dipper felt a couple of feet taller. Unfortunately, the next man up blasted a double, and the runner on base scored. But Chuck bore down hard and struck the next batter out, retiring the side with the score tied 1-1.

From there, for Dipper, it was downhill. He got to bat in the bottom of the inning, but though ahead of him Bobby Adamski had reached first and Dub Wilson had made a clean hit through the gap, the base coach unwisely motioned Dub to stretch his hit to a double—and Dub wasn't as fast as Dipper. He was put out, the throw to third was in time, and suddenly the Panthers had two outs, no one on base, and it was up to Dipper.

Who clenched up. A good pitch went right past him. He swung uselessly at one outside the strike zone. And he broke too soon and went down swinging on the third pitch, which, to be fair, he should have hit.

He took the field again, feeling, as Grunkle Stan might say, like ten cents worth of nothing.

The fourth inning brought a personal improvement, but unfortunately, it looked like the Padres had caught fire. They led off with a double; then the next man struck out; and then the biggest guy on the team with the unfortunate name Frank Farder hit a sweet home run, and suddenly the Padres were ahead, three to one. The next Padre got to first, and the next one after him smashed a blazing line drive to far left field. Dipper saw JD dive, catch it a foot off the ground, roll and leap to his feet, and fire it to him. He caught it—it stung like a hard-hit ball—and Dipper spun, realizing that the runner on first had overrun on his way to second but at the last moment had reversed direction. Putting on his best speed, Dipper caught him almost at first base and tagged him out.

The coach met him as he came in. "Good double play back there earlier," he said. "But Pines, throw to first when a man's running back. You're lucky you got the speed."

Dipper hung his head and admitted, "I know that was a dumb move. I got too anxious and lost track."

"You're coming along. Just remember next time."

Dipper rested in the dugout, but not for long—the next three Panthers struck out, one after the other. The Padres pitcher, Norm Chernky, was even better than Chuck, and he seemed to have hit the top of his game.

In the fifth, as if in revenge, Chuck in turn struck out three Padres in a row. And as if inspired, the other guys stood up to Chernky when they came up to bat: Stevie Prenelli, not a great hitter, got a single on a fielder's error. Kenneth Keeler, who had a good eye, then sacrificed to put Stevie on second. Mike managed a double, Petey went down swinging, and then Chuck, facing a Padres pitcher who now was getting a little tired and wild, also smacked a double, tying the score. That was great. Even better was JD's heroic homer, which pushed Piedmont to a 5-3 lead. Mabel didn't calm down even after the next batter, David Barbour, made a ground out.

Following league rules, which limited a pitcher to under 95 pitches per game, Coach retired Chuck at the top of the sixth and sent in Jon J as pitcher. After his warm-up, Jon J first pitched into a line drive, but the shortstop nabbed it for the out. The next Padres batter hit a fast grounder, and Dipper hustled to pick it up—but he glanced to first base at the wrong moment and overran it, letting it shoot through the gap, and the opposing player got a single.

Coach called for substitutions, and—not to Dipper's surprise—he was called in to the bench, while X-man took his place. "Sorry, Coach," Dipper mumbled. "That was a bad error."

"Not so bad if you learn from it," Waylund insisted. He also sent Big W in as catcher, and from that point to the end of the game, Dipper was a spectator. The Padres went down without managing to score another run, leaving it 5-3, Piedmont's favor, before they were retired. In the bottom of the sixth, the Panthers just couldn't get anything going. Two men got to base, but the others were caught out or struck out.

"If we can hold 'em," Coach muttered, "we've won a big one."

And—

Well, no need for false suspense. They did win it in the seventh. True, thanks to a double and a grounder single, the Padres got another man home and brought the score to 5-4, but between some good pitching and some better fielding, the Pico Padres were retired without managing to tie or beat Piedmont. The game ended with the score still five to four, Piedmont, and they'd squeaked out a win for their first game of the season.

And—funny thing—only when his mom and dad came down from the bleachers did Dipper even realize they'd come to the game. "We are so proud!" Mom said, beaming with joy. "You were absolutely wonderful! Everyone loved it! That was so great—Mabel!"

But Dad at least glanced at him and said in a mild voice, "Nice double-play, Dipper."

Mabel was jumping up and down in her lone-cheerleader get-up and excitedly suggesting that they should treat Chuck to an early dinner at a fancy restaurant when, behind them, a commotion broke out. Dipper turned.

One of the Piedmont men lay on his face in the grass just to the right of the third-base line, as if he'd fallen.

The number on his back was 3.

Chuck Taylor's number.

And Coach, who had hunkered over him, stood up with an expression of urgent concern and yelled as loud as he could, "Is there a doctor here?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Dipper Steps Up**

 **(Piedmont, California, 2014)**

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

 **From the Journals of Dipper Pines:** _Saturday, February 15: . . . .Coach called for a doctor, but didn't find one, but there was nurse in the crowd, and she came over and checked Chuck out. His pulse and breathing were OK, and he came to in a couple of minutes. In a woozy voice, he said he thought he'd just got too excited, but he was shaky, and Coach drove him home. Mabel and I rode along and met his parents, Jim and Margaret Taylor._

 _They said he hadn't had any fainting spells before, and his dad promised to keep an eye on Chuck over the weekend and said he would take him in to the doctor on Monday for a check-up. Mabel kissed Chuck's cheek and told him she hoped he'd feel better soon._

 _Then Coach dropped Mabel and me off at our house—I didn't know it (Mabel probably did), but the Taylor family lives like a ten-minute walk away from us. She said she'd go over tomorrow afternoon and make sure he's feeling better._

 _Two things worry me. First, the faint came on so sudden. Coach said Chuck looked fine at the end of the game, walked out of the dugout, all at once dropped down face-first—he's got a few scratches to show from that—and then just lay there. Second, when Chuck came around, he'd lost like the last fifteen minutes. He didn't remember anything that happened after the seventh inning started!_

 _That's spooky. He insists he's never fainted before and that he feels fine now. But I wonder._

 _And Mabel's worried, too. When we got home and climbed out of the coach's car, before we could go inside our house where Mom and Dad would ask us questions, she pulled me aside and asked, "Brobro, did you get a good look at Mrs. Taylor?"_

" _Huh? She was nice."_

" _Nice, shmice!" Sometimes I think Mabel is hanging around Grunkle Stan too much in the summer. At times she sounds just like him. "Dipper! Focus! Doesn't she remind you of someone?"_

 _I shook my head, thinking hard. Mrs. Taylor is in her late thirties, I guess, trim and slim with blue eyes and shortish blonde hair, but outside of that, nope. "No," I said._

" _She's exactly like a grown-up Pacifica!" Mabel said._

 _And it hit me then. Put Mrs. Taylor in a lake-foam green dress, give her longer hair with bangs, arrange a tiara on her head, and let her stick her nose in the air—"I can see it!" So then I told Mabel what Chuck had said about the Northwest family being related to him._

" _I knew there was some connection!" she said. "Dipper, we gotta detect this! When can we get to Gravity Falls? If we leave on the afternoon bus, we can get there tomorrow, snoop around, and then catch the bus back to Piedmont in time for school on Monday!"_

" _Uh, only if we charter a bus," I said. "And even then, to get back here for the first bell on Monday, we'd have a grand total of maybe ten minutes in Gravity Falls to do the snooping."_

" _Then we'll have to work fast!" she shot back._

 _We couldn't go to Gravity Falls in person, but I did the next best thing and called Grunkle Ford and then Wendy, and they both agreed to ask around about Chuck's Northwest ancestor. I think the first thing to do is make sure that Chuck's family tree is what he thought it was and that he is actually some kind of cousin of the Northwests._

 _Maybe if he's well again on Monday, we can forget the whole thing. I hope so. Guess that's it for this afternoon._

 _Oh—just picked up the Journal again to add something I forgot:_

 _We won our first game._

* * *

Chuck missed school on Monday, but he was back on Tuesday, and he told Dipper as they got ready for practice that the doctor had given him a clean bill of health: "Man, they jabbed me and poked me and stuck me in this weird tunnel-like deal. MRI, they called it, taking pictures of my brain or something. And took blood samples, the whole nine yards. Bottom line, I'm OK."

"That's good," Dipper said, but he couldn't help thinking that Chuck looked pale.

Chuck shrugged. "Well, they hafta get lab tests back on the blood samples, but the doctor couldn't find anything wrong. Just one of those things, I guess."

He seemed all right for the next two practices, and he did OK on Saturday in the game against the Nuñez Nighthawks—who never been a great team—he pitched the first three innings and then Jon J replaced him for two. The game ended in the bottom of the fifth because the Panthers led ten to nothing, and they notched up their second win for the season.

The next Monday, Chuck told Dipper that the blood tests had all come back negative. He still didn't look a hundred per cent, though, and that weekend they had two games, one on Friday, one on Saturday. Chuck pitched for four innings again on Friday, against the East Bay Broncos—the two teams were a close match in skills—and then Jon J took over for the rest of the game, which the Panthers lost by a heartbreaking one run, Broncos 2, Panthers 1. The Saturday game, against the OC Chargers, seesawed back and forth. Chuck asked to be taken out after pitching in the bottom of the third—his arm was tired, he said—and didn't get a hit in that game, but the Panthers won it 4 to 3, going the seven-inning distance to do it.

They were into March now, and the Mystery Twins caught a break. "Literally," Mabel told Dipper. "Womp!"

It was _spring_ break, to be exact. Normally that week-long vacation from school fell in April, but for their high school it came early that year—a late storm had blown the windows out of almost one whole side of the main classroom building and the high windows on the same side of the gym, too, and for a couple of weeks they'd been taking classes in dark classrooms with boarded-up windows. The administration unexpectedly got permission to move spring break so they could do emergency repairs, so Mabel and Dipper would be out of school March 8-16.

"Which leaves plenty of time for a trip to Gravity Falls," Mabel told Dipper. She immediately called Grunkle Stan and arranged it.

In turn, Grunkle Stan called their Mom, turned on his weird old-man charm, and persuaded her to agree. So he drove down on Friday, spent the night in the guest room, and on Saturday morning early, they piled into his El Diablo, the Stanleymobile, and took off for Oregon.

They got there well into the afternoon and drove straight to the Shack, where Dipper and Mabel would stay. They spilled out in an excited chatter, ran to the house, thundered through the door, and bounced off Soos's ample stomach. "Who-ho-hoa!" the big guy laughed. "Man, that takes me back! You guys are, like growing! Or am I losing weight? That is like a major puzzlement, dudes! I'll go weigh myself."

From Dipper's point of view, the high point came a few moments later when Wendy sauntered in, wearing a short jacket over her green flannel shirt and a familiar pine-tree trucker's hat. Her grin lit up her face. "'Sup, Mabes?" she asked, giving Dipper's sister a high five. "Dipper, dude! You wore my trapper hat!"

"He only takes it off in the shower!" Mabel told her. "And for playing baseball. And for school. There's a dumb rule against wearing a hat in high-school classrooms!"

Dipper hesitantly went over, shivering a little—and then hugged Wendy tight. "It's so good to see you again!"

"Whoa!" she said, laughing. "You're gettin' impulsive, dude! And taller, too. High school'l do that to you. So how's baseball?"

"Discouraging," Dipper admitted, breaking the hug. "It takes up a lot of time, and we have CAHSEE coming up—"

"Cashee? How much cashee?" Grunkle Stan asked, leaning forward, and Dipper could almost hear the cash-register drawer of his Grunkle's mind ding open.

"No, CAHSEE. It's the California High School Exit Exam," Dipper said. "Everybody has to take it to prove that they've learned what they're supposed to've learned."

"Totally bogus," Mabel said.

"No moolah?" Stan asked, sounding disappointed.

"No, you don't get paid for taking it," Dipper said.

"Aw. Oh, well, Poindexter is probably down in his—" Stan crooked his fingers into air quotes—" _secret lab_ , which Soos wired for Internet service. He's got some dope for ya."

"Yeah, me too," Wendy said. "Let me help you guys haul your junk in, and we'll go down and see Dr. Pines and we can tell you what we found out about Emmeline Northwest."

"Is she Chuck's ancestor?" Mabel asked.

"Probably. But we'll talk after we get your suitcases in."

* * *

 **From the Journals of Dipper Pines:** _We drew up mismatched chairs around the basement nook where Ford's new computer sat. Ford greeted us and then said, "Wendy actually learned the first information. Will you tell them?"_

" _Sure, Ford dude," Wendy said, leaning back in the rolling desk chair she had grabbed. She half-closed her eyes, just like she always did when she propped her feet on the gift-shop counter, and my heart thumped hard. "OK, so I went out to visit Pacifica in their new place." (I think I've mentioned this, but after losing their house, Pacifica's dad moved the family to their old pony farm in the country outside of town.) "She didn't know anything about her ancestors, but she let me into this room where their family mementoes and stuff are stored."_

" _I LOVE mementoes!" Mabel squeed. "And if you drop three of 'em into diet soda—"_

" _Wrong kind of mementoes," I told her._

 _Wendy went on to explain that Pacifica dug out an old diary once kept by Evangeline Northwest, the wife of the old fraud Nathaniel who falsely claimed to have been the discoverer of Gravity Falls Valley and founder of the town._

" _So, like, in 1857 ol' Nathaniel ordered the big house to be built on the hill, and it took years, dudes. Finally, in June or July of 1862 it was ready, and the Northwests moved in and planned a big party that summer. Well, pretty big for the time. I mean, back then the town was just a small settlement. I don't think it, like, even had a real name until 1863, when Mrs. Northwest wrote in her diary that her husband was real mad that they didn't name the town after him, but just called it Gravity Falls. Anyways, at the party Nathaniel pulled a totally jerk move—"_

" _We know that part," I said. "He'd promised to let all the lumberjacks who'd provided the wood attend the party, but he locked the gates on them. Yeah, I kinda helped clear up a ghost problem for the Northwests."_

" _I know, Dip," Wendy said with a smile. "Pacifica told me. OK, yeah, and Nathaniel's daughter Emmeline, who was about seventeen that year, got really pis—" she coughed and glanced at Ford, then went on: "—put out with her dad 'cause she knew he was gonna slam the gate and she thought it was, like, bad karma or some deal."_

" _It was pretty bad," Mabel said. "Grenda, Candy, and me spent about ten minutes turned to wood 'cause of it."_

 _Wendy looked surprised—I guessed Pacifica hadn't told her that detail, but she nodded at Mabel and said, "Get this: Emmeline slipped away from home during the party. Ran away from home and nobody ever heard from her again. They all thought she drowned—the valley flooded that same night. Old Nathaniel never let her name be spoken again, but her mom wrote four or five times in her diary how bad she missed her daughter. The Northwests had five other kids in all, and I guess one of them was Pacifica's ancestor. That's all I got."_

" _Tragic!" Mabel said._

" _I'll take up the story from there," Grunkle Ford said, picking up a small pile of note cards. "After a boring search that I won't go into detail about, I learned that in 1865, a young woman named Emmeline Northwest was living in a boarding house on Bush Street, San Francisco. The city register says her job was 'Governess.'"_

" _Of California?" Mabel asked, looking impressed._

 _Ford blinked. "Uh—Mabel, a governess is a live-in nanny and teacher. She worked for a widower, Mr. E. Humboldt, who had two very young sons. I also found an old newspaper notice about her in the_ Alta California, _a San Francisco newspaper_. _According to it, in June of 1867, Emmeline married her employer, Ernest Humbolt. After that, nothing in the records until October of 1878, when the_ San Francisco Morning Call _newspaper published his obituary. He'd died of a heart attack at the age of fifty-four, leaving a widow, Emmeline, and four sons: Ernest Junior, age seventeen, Mackenzie, fifteen, Nathaniel, eight, and Raymond, five."_

 _I exclaimed, "The last two must have been his and Emmeline's sons!"_

" _So I surmise," Ford agreed. "Let's see. Ernest Humbolt wasn't exactly rich, but he was comfortably well-off. He was a minor partner in a prosperous shipping company that traded with China and India. Evidently Emmeline sold off his share of the company, invested the money, and retired to Oakland to live off the interest after her husband passed away. Ernest owned a small house there that he had been renting, and the last record I found of Emmeline and her boys indicates that they moved into it in late 1878 or early 1879. The house and the whole neighborhood no longer exist, by the way. There's a big shopping complex where her street used to be."_

" _And-?" Mabel asked._

 _But Grunkle Ford shrugged, spreading out his six-fingered hands. "Sorry. I'm afraid that's about all. I didn't find her obituary or any certain records of her sons—but the San Francisco earthquake and fire of 1906 destroyed an awful lot of records, so if the boys grew up, lived, and worked in the city, that's not surprising."_

" _But if she was living in Oakland," I said, "that's not far from where Chuck's family lives. If one of her sons got married and settled there, then Mrs. Taylor could be his, what, great-granddaughter or something?"_

" _It is possible," Ford said. "And I did find a legal record of an N. G. Humbolt's purchasing a dry-goods store in Oakland in 1900. Unfortunately, no full name was listed, but that MIGHT be Nathaniel."_

" _We'll have to ask Mrs. Taylor when we get back," Mabel said._

 _Ford told us he'd continue his research. Wendy took me aside after our conference and said, "Dude, I got something else for you, if you're up to it. Tomorrow afternoon, late, 'round sundown. Wear long pants and hiking shoes. Let's leave Mabel here to get caught up with Candy and Grenda and all. Just you and me."_

 _"I'd like that!"_

 _Wendy chuckled, but she immediately looked serious again. "Chill, dude. I'm kinda worried about even takin' you. It's gonna be scary."_

 _I gulped. But then I thought—well, if it helps Chuck it helps me, it helps Mabel, it helps his family, and it helps the team. I asked Wendy, "Will you be with me?"_

" _You know it!"_

 _I smiled. "Then I won't be afraid."_

* * *

 _To be continued_


	6. Chapter 6

**Dipper Steps Up**

 **(Piedmont, California, 2014)**

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

When Wendy and Dipper left the Shack, the sun had just set. The night insects had not yet tuned up, but bats twittered overhead and out in the forest the woodpeckers, who didn't give up until the light was almost gone, drummed away. "Where are we going?" Dipper asked as they stepped off the trail.

"Into the woods," Wendy said. "You bring a flashlight, dude?"

"Yeah, I have one of the prototypes Grunkle Ford made."

"Good deal. I got the one I use camping. We'll need light on the way back."

In the gathering twilight they hiked on, uphill and down, skirting thickets of huckleberry, boggy growths of cobra lily, and stands of trailplant, threading their way through second-growth fir and pine forests, passing expanses of tree stumps and seedlings. "Dad logs all through here," Wendy said in one clearing, the air sharp with the scent of freshly-cut wood. She switched on her own flashlight and said, "Not far now."

Finally, they reached the cleared crown of a domed hill. Stars spangled the sky overhead, lots more than Dipper had ever seen in Piedmont, where the light pollution from Oakland and San Francisco dimmed them. No moon yet—it was gibbous and waning and, because of the recent change to Daylight Saving Time, it wouldn't rise until nearly eleven.

Creatures howled in the distance. Like the panda duck that Dipper had tried to win for Wendy, the species were indeterminate. In Gravity Falls, they might be anything. Wendy stood beside a stump and took a deep breath. "OK, dude, I know you won't freak out, but this might be rough on you. Remember I'm here for you, though. Wanna hold my hand?"

"Anytime," Dipper said. Her hand was warm in his.

"OK, Gramps, I brought him!" Wendy yelled into the night.

Dipper looked at her, but she had turned off the flashlight and he saw only her silhouette against the stars. "Huh?"

"He said not to tell you till he got here. Gramps! It's me, Wendy!"

In front of them, a greenish fog coalesced. Floating a couple of feet above the ground, it pulsed and brightened and then shrank in on itself, transforming into a hulking, bearded human figure.

"Oh, my gosh!" Dipper said. "The ghost from the Northwest mansion!"

"Dipper," the apparition moaned in its deep, rumbling voice. "I have to talk to you. I mean you no harm!"

Dipper almost sagged with relief. "No problem, sir! Wendy, I'm not afraid of him. You look a lot better, Mr. uh, Lumberjack. Your beard's not on fire, and your missing eye seems to have healed up. And the, uh, axe in your head's gone."

"I'm not haunting anyone now," the ghost explained, self-consciously straightening the blow tie it wore on its . . . beard. "I have no wish to terrify. When you're a ghost, you can take many forms."

"Dude," Wendy said, squeezing Dipper's hand, "this is Archibald Corduroy. He's, like, my great-great grandfather!"

"I wondered about that!" Dipper said. "I saw his picture in your house—uh, it's nice to meet you, Mr. Corduroy."

"You treated me well," the ghost said. "I regret tricking you and then turning you into wood."

"That . . . was sort of scary," Dipper admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

The apparition shrugged modestly. "Well, I _am_ a ghost."

"Yeah. Uh, excuse me, but I thought that after Pacifica let everybody in, you had gone on to, you know, your reward."

"I could not bear to leave this forest that I loved so much in life," the ghost said, gesturing with a sweep of his glowing arm that took in all the surroundings. "Also, once free of haunting the hated Northwest house, I wondered what had become of my family. I soon discovered I have a mighty descendant in Daniel, and a beautiful one in Wendy." The ghost floated next to Dipper and confided: "She likes you, boy!"

"Aw, Gramps!" Wendy said, laughing. "Cut it out, dude! Look, I brought Dipper, like you asked, so just tell him what you've got for him, OK?"

The ghost backed away from Dipper, towering over them both. "He's a brave, intelligent boy, Wendy. You could do a lot worse."

"I really like your great-great granddad," Dipper said to Wendy.

Wendy giggled. "You guys! C'mon, Gramps."

"Very well. Dipper, the root of your friend's trouble is another ghost from the past. An evil one. Well, I say 'evil,' I suppose I went a little overboard myself, but my anger branched out from the betrayal the Northwests committed against my friends and me—no, no, I'll cut that short. Forget it. I'm sorry for the bad things that came from my long hatred, leave it at that. But now an ill-intentioned spirit is trying to possess your fiend Taylor. If he succeeds, terrible things will happen. You have to stop him."

"How?" Dipper asked, his throat feeling tight.

"I'm a lumberjack, not an exorcist," the ghost said a little irritably. " _You_ must discover the way to help. Speak to the boy's family. Seek out his mother. Tell her. She will sense the truth of what I've told you. And beware! The spirit that threatens your friend is implacable, his grip as strong as cypress roots!"

"Dude," Wendy said, "you have, like, a really good vocabulary for a nineteenth-century lumberjack!"

"Being an outdoorsman doesn't mean you have to be illiterate, girl." The ghost started to dim.

"Wait, wait!" Dipper said. "Uh, sir—who is the ghost? That would help!"

"You already know in your heart," the fading ghost said. "It is a spirit that wishes to reincarnate—for revenge!"

"Bill Cipher?"

For just a second the ghost became a little brighter and clearer. "Who? No! Think human!"

And Archibald Corduroy went out like a candle flame in a wind.

"Who did he mean?" Dipper asked in the sudden darkness.

"I'm stumped," Wendy confessed. "Man, Dipper, you took that whole thing a lot better'n I expected! First time Archibald appeared to me, I totally freaked!"

"When was that?"

"Fall, two years back, after you an' Mabes went back to California. Along in October. I was in the woods behind our house cuttin' down some deadwood for the fireplace, and there he was, floatin' right in front of me. I kinda attacked him with my axe, but that went nowhere fast. He eventually calmed me down and told me who he was and all, and said he was gonna watch over our family and protect us, and since then I never saw him again—until I started asking around about the Northwests. Few days ago, he appeared to me in a stall of the girls' bathroom at school. Now, _that_ was awkward. Anyhow, he seemed to know you were gonna come to Gravity Falls and said I needed to get you an' him together so he could tell you something, and he said you might be scared, so not to let you know who I was takin' you to see. You weren't scared, though. Good for you, dude!"

Dipper shrugged. "Those first ghosts I ever saw, the ones in the Dusk 2 Dawn, scared the heck out of me. Mainly because of what they were doing to Mabel and your friends. But I've kinda learned that most ghosts don't want to hurt you. Who could be haunting Chuck Taylor, though?"

"Dunno, man," Wendy said. They'd both switched on their flashlights and were headed back through the woods.

They didn't talk much. But when the lights of the Mystery Shack gleamed through the trees ahead, Dipper stopped in his tracks and said, "Reincarnate. Oh, no!"

Wendy stopped too. "What's wrong, Dip?"

"No," Dipper said. "No, no, no. I hope I'm wrong."

"About what?" she asked.

He swallowed hard. "Nathaniel Northwest."

* * *

The rest of the week flew by without any substantial developments in the case. Grunkle Ford lent Dipper a few detection devices and taught him how to use them, and then Grunkle Stan drove the kids home the next Saturday.

They spent Sunday and Monday brushing up for the CAHSEE that the school would give on Tuesday and Wednesday, and to their relief, the tests didn't seem all that hard. "I hope you didn't get bored and start putting down random answers," Dipper told Mabel after the last exam ended.

"Nope!" Mabel said. "I learned my lesson after the test I took in fifth grade that said I should be busted to kindergarten."

Chuck had seemed OK, and that afternoon, their first practice since the early spring break, he recovered his playing form again, pitching hard, hitting hard, running full-out. The Thursday practice was good, too, and Dipper began to think that everything was all right again.

Saturday brought a big game with the Bay City Blues. Their win-loss record tied Piedmont's, and Coach said that the teams were a pretty close match in ability, too. The Blues had a good pitching staff, some good hitters, and typically racked up scores of five to ten points in a game. They weren't the most spectacular team, but like the Panthers they played a steady, relentless game.

Saturday morning, the game started out well. Bay City won the toss and chose to take the field. Their pitcher had game: he struck out both Mike and Petey with three pitches each, and Dipper began to think the Panthers were doomed to an early loss.

However, Chuck, looking healthy, belted out a solid double, and following him at bat, both JD and Barb managed singles, sending Chuck home for the first run of the game. Unfortunately, Jon J sent a sweet high fly ball deep into left field—and right into the fielder's glove.

Chuck's pitching began unsteadily. The first batter racked up one strike and three balls before hitting a single. The second man up got a double on the first pitch, putting the runner on third and ready to score. From the bench, Tripper watched Chuck wipe sweat from his face, kick at the mound, and then lean forward, looking determined.

Off on the sidelines, Mabel, in her cheerleader costume, acted subdued. The Panthers had a bigger crowd than ever—their away games had frankly pitiful attendance, just the kids' parents and maybe five or six students—but now the bleachers were nearly full of cheering kids and adults. Except Mabel's enthusiasm had ebbed. Dipper knew she was worrying about Chuck.

However, Chuck promptly struck out two Blues in a row. The next two batters both got on base, though, one single, one double. Then when Vance McCall stepped into the batter's box, Chuck took his time considering his first pitch. McCall was the Blues' best hitter by far.

And he proved it by pulling a low fly to far right field, where it hit and bounced, for a moment looking as if it would go straight to Petey DeFoy—but then it bounced again, taking a bad hop deeper into fair territory, making it hard to field.

McCall wound up standing on second base. The first two Blues scored, and there went Piedmont's lead. As though to apologize to the fans, Chuck struck the next guy out with three fast pitches.

Second inning began with X-Man getting a single, trying to push it into a double, and getting tagged out. However, then both Hi-Ho and Bobby made it to base—Hi-Ho successfully stealing second before Bobby's single put him on third. Dub struck out, and it was Dipper's turn.

He'd been working hard on his batting. He let a ball go by, choked up on his grip, and took a swing at the next pitch—and connected. It was a grounder, skipping just past the third baseman and running right along the foul line.

Miracle of miracles, it didn't cross the line, and Dipper made it to first! More, it took Hi-Ho home—Dipper's first RBI. For a moment, it looked like a Piedmont rally, but Big W's hard grounder was snagged by the Blues shortstop, who fired the ball home just in time for the catcher to tag Bobby out.

The Blues couldn't get anything going in the bottom half, and the second inning closed with a 2-2 tie.

The Panthers came to bat for the third inning. Coach sent Dipper and Krenk in as subs and asked Chuck how he was feeling. "I'm OK," he insisted, though Dipper thought he was sweating harder than usual. It was a dismal inning, three Panthers coming up to bat, two being put out, one getting on base, and then with Jimmy in scoring position on third base—Krenk went down swinging, one, two, three, to retire the side.

In the bottom, Chuck's pitching was noticeably slower and less accurate. Still, he held the Blues to just one run, though that put them ahead again, three to two.

Before the turnover, Coach walked out and asked Chuck, "You gonna be OK? I can pull you."

Dipper saw Chuck shake his head and heard him mutter, "I think laying off practice last week put me off my game. I'll stay in."

In the top of the fourth inning, Mike, first up, got a single, and Chuck matched it. Coach called for time out and said, "Pines, you're faster. Go in as a pinch runner for Monohan."

Though he felt a flutter of anxiety, Dipper did. He led off second, tense, ready to jump back if the Blues pitcher suddenly turned and threw to the second baseman. Like Chuck, the Blues pitcher seemed to have lost some steam, and JD blasted his first pitch into a hard liner into the gap and dug out on what looked to be a double—but the right fielder scooped it up and got it to first in time to hold him.

But Dipper, running full out, tagged third, saw the coach motion him, and, imagining the Gobblewonker nipping at his heels, blasted for home. He could hear Mabel, not leading a cheer, but just screaming "Go, Bro, go, go, GO!"

The catcher stepped up, mitt raised, and Dipper fell into a slide, raising dust. The ball smacked the mitt. Dipper's cleats touched home plate, the catcher tagged his calf, and the ump yelled, "Safe!"

The crowd went wild. Well, mostly Mabel went wild, but still. He had tied the game again, 3-all.

There the Panthers lost their luck. One man out on a pop fly, and then a double play ended their chance to pull ahead.

Chuck didn't look as if he felt well when he stood on the mound. But he bore down and struck out the first two Blues at bat—the second out was actually their first man in the rotation. Then he got two strikes past the third batter—and as he wound up for the third pitch, all at once he tottered and went down on one knee, the ball on the ground, his right hand going out to brace himself. He croaked, "Coach!"

Waylund, Dipper, and the other Panthers hustled out. "What's wrong, Chuck?" Coach asked.

"Real dizzy," Chuck gasped. "Better take me out."

The crowd applauded as Waylund helped Chuck to the dugout, and Dipper saw Mr. and Mrs. Taylor coming down from the bleachers, looking anxious. Waylund sent in Jon J as replacement pitcher, and he did his best, but Chuck's second near-faint had shaken up him and the other Panthers, and Jon J let another two Blues batters on base before the next one got a single, pulling the Blues ahead by one run. Then he pulled it together and struck the last man out.

Dipper hastily trotted in to ask Chuck how he was feeling. Chuck, huddled on the bench, shrugged miserably. "We'll take him back to the doctor," his dad said.

"Not until the game ends," Chuck said firmly. "Just a little dizzy."

It might have gone better if he'd gone then. The Panthers, keenly aware that Chuck was sick and was watching them, lost their concentration. They fought the game out, even managing another run in the top of the seventh, but it ended with a Blues win, 9-4.

Dipper had missed an easy catch and had fanned three pitches, striking out in the worst way possible. As soon as the game ended, the Taylors took Chuck away—he was walking under his own power, at least—and the team morosely apologized to the coach.

"Forget it, men," he said. "I'll stay in touch with the Taylors and get word out to you if it looks serious. Let's hope it isn't."

"We're all hoping," Mabel said. She had come into the dugout, and tears stood in her eyes.

In the back seat of the family car, as their mom and dad stood outside talking about the game—and probably Chuck's illness—Dipper said to Mabel, "I'm going over to the Taylors' this afternoon."

"I'm coming too," she said.

"If you want. Listen, do me a big favor. You get Chuck and his dad aside somehow. I have to talk to Mrs. Taylor."

"About what?"

Dipper's voice was grim: "About a family ghost."


	7. Chapter 7

**Dipper Steps Up**

 **(Piedmont, California, 2014)**

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

Later that afternoon, Dipper and Mabel walked over to the Taylors' house. When Mrs. Taylor answered the doorbell, Dipper took a good look at her, and Mabel had been right—add twenty years to Pacifica, trim her hair, and she'd look almost exactly like Chuck's mom. "How is he?" Mabel asked.

"Resting," she said quietly. "Let me see if he's asleep. He'd probably like to have you visit him if he isn't."

She went up the stairs, came back to the top, and beckoned them. Chuck's bedroom was on the corner of the house, with two windows, one looking out on the back yard. Dipper glanced down at a basketball goal and, off near the rear fence, a home-made contraption: a sheet of plywood stood on end on a framework. A rectangular hole in it puzzled him, until he saw that nearly fifty feet toward the house a pitcher's mound had been heaped up, a white rubber pitcher's plate mounted in it. Then he realized what the plywood was: _It's a target! Chuck practices pitching, and that cut-out is the strike zone!_

Chuck himself sat up on the bed with his legs stretched out. He wore a yellow T-shirt and blue jeans and was shoeless but wearing white socks. He'd been propped against two pillows, and he'd obviously been listening to music—red ear buds and a digital tablet lay on the bed beside him. "Hi," he said listlessly when they came in.

"We were worried about you," Mabel said. She pulled the only chair from Chuck's desk and sat down next to him. "Are you feeling any better?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. I feel OK. Mad. Scared."

"What happened, man?" Dipper, standing next to the foot of the bed, asked.

With a shake of his head, Chuck said, "Don't really know. First time, just before I fainted, I felt kind of, I don't know—just out of it?" He looked puzzled. "Ever lost a lot of sleep and then felt like everything is sort of—distant? Fuzzy? I dunno, Dipper. Like I was only . . . half there, like nothing around me was real. And then everything went black, and the next thing I remember, I was laying on my back looking up at everybody and they told me I'd fainted."

"How about today?" Dipper asked.

"Kind of the same, but different, too."

"Same-y but different-y," Mabel said with a knowing nod.

"Yeah," Chuck said, giving her a weak smile. "Sort of. I was pitching, leaning in to see Big W's signal, and then—like the world just closed down—what do they call it? Tunnel vision? Everything went dark, but it was like there was one little circle that I could still see, centered right on Big W's fingers and everything else was just . . . dark. I thought I was gonna black out again, and I went down on my knee and braced myself—I remember pressing my fingers down on the pitcher's mound dirt. It was real warm from the sun. So, anyway, I didn't faint, and my vision got all right again, but when Coach helped me to the bench, I felt that same kind of—what, detached feeling? Like I nearly wasn't there, like everything was fading out around me."

Dipper reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a black plastic device like a compact remote control. "Would you mind if I scanned you with this?" he asked.

Chuck laughed, weakly. "What is it, a tricorder? Like from the _Star Trek_ movie?"

"Kind of," Dipper said. "Our great-uncle Stanford Pines is a researcher, and this is one of his inventions."

"It won't hurt," Mabel promised. "Hold my hand."

"OK," Chuck said, reaching for it. "But the doctors couldn't find anything."

Dipper went to the other side of the bed and switched on the anomaly detector. It was a special kind—its sensor swept what Ford called the Spectral Spectrum to detect any ghostly activity. It made no noise, and a green light showed as Dipper slowly began to direct it toward Chuck, first his feet, then his legs, his hips, his torso, and upward.

When it got to his head, the light turned orange.

"Huh," Dipper said. "Inconclusive." He turned off the device and tucked it back into his pocket.

"Yeah, like the freakin' MRI." Chuck sighed. "Man, I hate having to go back to the doctor. Specialist this time."

"Do what they say, Chuck," Dipper said. "We don't have a team without you."

"Yeah, that's the worst of it," Chuck muttered. "I let the team down."

"No, you didn't!" Mabel said. "They're all worried about you and they're all behind you! You just get well—that's all they want."

Dipper squirmed a little. "Um, hey, bathroom?" he asked.

Chuck nodded toward the bedroom door. "To the left, second door."

But Dipper didn't go to the bathroom. Instead, he went downstairs, softly. He heard a voice and followed it. Mrs. Taylor stood at the kitchen counter, a cup of coffee on it, talking into her phone. "Just get a time for him," she said. "No, he seems better, but I'm worried. Love you, too. Hurry home." Dipper cleared his throat, and she looked around, turning her phone off. She asked quietly, "How is he feeling?"

Dipper replied, "OK, he says. But we need to talk, Mrs. Taylor. Where's Chuck's dad?"

"He drove to the hospital. Our family doctor recommended we consult a neurologist there. He can't make time to see Chuck today, but he agreed to talk to Jim about Chuck's symptoms. He's going to try to examine him on Monday."

"May I sit down?"

Margaret Taylor smiled. "Let's go to the living room. It's more comfortable." She put her coffee cup—still almost full, Dipper noticed—in the sink.

She led him to a cozy sort of room—curtained windows letting soft light in, big plush sofa, two armchairs. Mrs. Taylor sat on one of these, and Dipper took the corner of the sofa nearest her. "This is hard to talk about," he said. "I'm just a kid, and what I have to say sounds crazy. I know that."

"What is it?" Mrs. Taylor asked.

"Will you hear me out? Please?" Dipper asked.

"Sure," she said. "Chuck thinks a lot of you. Go ahead."

"Well—to start with, do you know about your ancestor, Emmeline Northwest?"

Mrs. Taylor crossed her arms and hugged herself as if suddenly chilled. "I've heard of her."

"She came from a little town named Gravity Falls, Oregon," Dipper said. "Her dad—well, I have to tell you the truth, he wasn't a good person. And she hated that—I don't mean she hated her dad, but she hated the things he did to people. So she ran away." He filled in the details of her coming to California, marrying Ernest Humbolt in San Francisco, moving to Oakland after his death.

"I knew some of that," Mrs. Taylor said. "But my folks didn't really talk about her much. Her son was my great-grandfather, and his daughter, Persephone Humbolt, was my grandmother. I remember her as an old lady-she married my grandfather Luther Baxley late and had my dad when she was in her forties. She told me a few things about her own grandmother—Emmeline, I mean. But I didn't even know Emmeline's original last name until my grandmother passed away and we found _her_ grandmother's old marriage certificate among her things." She tilted her head. "What does this have to do with Chuck, though?"

 _Dangerous ground! I need to watch my step!_ Dipper took a slow breath, trying to keep his voice calm:"OK, this is the crazy part. My uncle, Dr. Stanford Pines, lives in Gravity Falls. He's a famous paranormal investigator. I mean, he's a brilliant scientist, Mrs. Taylor. He's got patents and inventions, he's published work on his research, the government's even commissioned him to do work—he's the real deal, you know?" Dipper stood and took the compact anomaly detector out of his pocket. "He and his colleague Dr. Fiddleford McGucket, built this. It can trace any . . . well, any ghostly emanations. I know. You don't believe in ghosts."

Mrs. Taylor leaned toward him and lowered her voice. "But I do, Dipper. I do!"

* * *

And she believed in ghosts for a good reason. "I've seen one!" she admitted.

She told him about it. When she was just a little girl, five or six, her parents had taken her to the site of her great-grandfather's boyhood home—and of his mother, Emmeline. The whole block would soon be razed for the construction of a shopping center.

"We couldn't go inside the house," Margaret Taylor told Dipper. "All the houses were condemned. I was surprised it looked like such a little place—old-style California, adobe with a red-tile roof, but half the tiles were broken or just gone, the wood warped where they had been. I remember, all the windows were broken out, too. The front door had been taken off its hinges or knocked down. When you looked in, you just saw shadows and darkness. It had 'Do Not Enter' tapes crisscrossed over the opening. I remember my mom reading them to me and explaining what they meant."

She shivered. "My dad and mom walked around taking pictures of the house from all angles. I stood in the yard—even the street had been closed off there, and nobody was around but us. The house was scary. I started to imagine things. The worst was—I saw a man standing in the doorway, in the shadows. He was smiling at me. He wanted me to come inside. I could tell."

"Describe him," Dipper said, taking out a pocket notebook and pen.

She frowned. "I was just a little girl, and it's been a long time. It's all hazy. He had a long brown beard and a sharp, pointy nose. Dark eyebrows that made him look like he was frowning. He . . . he wore . . . I think it was faded blue overalls and a gray shirt with the sleeves rolled way up the arms. And . . . boots, I think. Dirty, like ones farmers might wear." She took a deep breath. "Even though he scared me, somehow I halfway wanted to walk into that house. I even took one or two steps. Then my dad and mom came around from the back yard. . . and right in front of my eyes, the man in the doorway dissolved."

"Dissolved?" Dipper asked more sharply than he intended, remembering the bizarre way Archibald Corduroy had vanished, first his hair and skin going, then muscles and organs and finally his skeleton.

"I mean he faded away," Mrs. Taylor said. "I—I saw that happen! He turned transparent, and then he was gone! My mother and father told me I'd imagined it—but it's as clear to me as any memory."

"Just a minute," Dipper said. He took out his cell phone and scrolled through photos. "It's here somewhere . . . here! Does this look anything like him?"

He showed Mrs. Taylor a picture of the commemorative statue that stood in downtown Gravity Falls, before Bill Cipher casually melted it: a bearded pioneer, grasping a telescope in his right hand and a flagpole in his left, his left foot resting atop a stone outcrop as he gazed sternly at something in the distance.

"Yes," Mrs. Taylor said. "I—that could be a statue of the man I saw. Where is that?"

"It used to be in Gravity Falls, Oregon," Dipper said. "I mean, there's a replacement standing there now that's exactly like this one, but this is the original. That first statue got destroyed in, uh, a freak accident." _Kind of true. Bill was totally a freak._

"The town where Emmeline Northwest came from," Mrs. Taylor said. "Are you saying—is Chuck suffering from some sort of family _curse?"_

"Not exactly," Dipper told her. "Uh, OK, the guy the statue represented—he was a fraud. He cheated and stole and lied and treated other people like dirt. He wasn't even what he claimed to be—the man who founded and named the town. And he's been dead since about 1874 or so. But—I think his evil is lingering on."

"I don't understand."

"The detector I showed you," Dipper said, "showed an orange light. That's not the worst it could've been—worst would be if the light turned red, which would mean there was a ghost close by. But the orange light indicated that some paranormal influence may be interfering with Chuck. From other sources, I'm nearly convinced that it's coming from the spirit of the man whose statue that was. We're coming up on the 140th anniversary of his death. That's one of the dangerous ones—haunting ghosts gain power every seventh year, and this is the twentieth seven-year span nearing completion. if his spirit is still around, it's a time when he might try to push through again into the world of the living." He took a deep breath. "Can you believe that?"

"I saw him," she said. "I believe he exists somehow. And I've had a strange feeling about Chuck's illness from the start. What can we do?"

"There are some protections I can try," Dipper said. "But the hard part—the really dangerous one—is to exorcise the ghost. It's not just hazardous, but difficult to do, because ordinary doctors and specialists, no matter how smart, will be against it. But I think—I'm afraid that—sending the spirit out of our world might be the only way of helping Chuck. If you'll let me, I'll call in my great-uncle on this. I'd trust him with my life—or Chuck's."

Mrs. Taylor frowned. "What does the ghost want with my son?"

"Well—the ghost will be like the living man was, selfish, full of spite, domineering, and driven by hate. He has other descendants—but they took after him more than Emmeline did. I think he wants to return to earth in a living body—but the body of a descendant of the daughter who defied him. I think he wants to take over Chuck's mind, to steal his soul and turn Chuck into, well, himself—into Nathaniel Northwest."

The instant that he pronounced the name, both he and Mrs. Taylor started spasmodically.

For upstairs a terrified Mabel screamed, "Oh, my God! Help! Somebody! _Help!"_


	8. Chapter 8

**Dipper Steps Up**

 **(Piedmont, California, 2014)**

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

Dipper and Mrs. Taylor ran to the stair, Dipper in the lead. He tore up ahead of her to the second floor and tried to open Chuck's door and found it locked. "Mabel!"

From inside the room came Mabel's frantic voice: "Dipper! Something's wrong with—"

"Go away!"

Dipper heard Mrs. Taylor gasp. The voice was Chuck's but then again it didn't sound a bit like Chuck's normal tone—lower, grating, more guttural. Dipper pounded on the door. "Come on, this isn't funny! Open up!"

He flinched as a shattering crash of glass came from the far side. Mabel screamed. Dipper threw himself against the door, bounced off, and went sprawling. He got up and charged the door again—

And bowled over Mabel, who'd just thrown the door open. They tumbled to the floor together. Mabel waved her arm wildly. "He broke the window!"

"Chuck!" Mrs. Taylor yelled, stepping over and around the two fallen Mystery Twins. "What—where is he?"

"He broke the window!" Mabel said again, getting up. "With the chair! And then he jumped out!"

"From up here?" Dipper asked, standing up. Mrs. Taylor went to the broken window, next to the bed, and he stood beside her looking out. The window had been one big pane, completely gone now, except for half a dozen sharp shards left clinging to the sides and top of the frame. A window screen had been pushed out and hung crazily off to the left. The blue curtain on that side hung out of the opening, ripped so a piece of it flopped loose.

"Where is he?" Mrs. Taylor asked. She turned and ran out to the hall and down the steps. Dipper leaned out.

Below him, fragments of broken glass from dinner-plate size on down littered the grass below the window, and a few feet away the desk chair lay on its back, as though it had been hurled out in a fit of anger. No sign of Chuck.

"He just—he went crazy!" Mabel said, sobbing. "He told me to get out of the chair, I stood up, he pushed past me and locked the door and picked up the chair, and I yelled—then he threw the chair right through the window!"

"You OK?" Dipper asked her.

"I'm scared! He looked so—wild!"

"You're not hurt, though?"

"No."

"Come on—let's see if we can find Chuck!"

He wasn't in the back yard—but some of his blood was. A splash of it as big as Dipper's hand was right under the window, and a smear of it on the fence showed that Chuck must have climbed over it at the corner of the house, where he could head to the street. Mrs. Taylor was yelling Chuck's name and staring all around the back yard, though he couldn't have been there—no place to hide.

"Take care of Mrs. Taylor," Dipper told Mabel. "Get her back inside and have her call the police. I'm gonna see if I can track him."

"Track—how?"

"He's bleeding," Dipper said. "Not too bad, but I can see a drop here and there. I'll try to follow him."

"What—what will you do if you catch him?" Mabel asked.

"Not hurt him. Try to hold him until the police come. I'll call if I find him."

They went through the house, and Dipper ran to the front door. "Go get Mrs. Taylor inside," he told Mabel. "Make sure she calls the police. They wouldn't believe you or me."

"I'll do it."

As he opened it, Mabel called, "Dipper—"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful!"

* * *

Tracking proved harder than he'd thought. The outside of the fence showed a small streak of blood, but no spots showed on the lawn—none he could find. _Oh, man! I wish Wendy were here—she knows all about this tracking stuff, and I don't know anything!_

He walked to the street, taking the most direct path across the lawn, and went ten feet one way, ten the other, before he caught sight of a nickel-sized red splotch, roughly pear-shaped and already drying.

Forcing himself not to run—he might miss something—Dipper walked along the sidewalk of Selborne Drive, head down, gaze on the pavement. He took out his phone and called Grunkle Ford's number. When Ford answered, Dipper said, "Ford, I've got a big problem."

"Go on," Ford told him.

Quickly Dipper sketched in what he knew, what he had deduced, and what he feared. "Mabel says he went crazy and jumped out of the window," he finished. "And I'm almost sure he did that the instant I mentioned Northwest's name, but I wasn't in the room. Not even on the same floor!"

"Possession," Ford said. "Ghosts can gain a sudden energy by being called by their earthly names—and they have the uncanny ability of being several places at once, or it seems that way. The odds are high that's what happened. Let me consult some resources and I'll call you right back."

"Hurry. I'm trying to follow him, but I don't know how long I can stay on the trail."

A nickel-sized drop every ten steps or so, that was the track. And when he reached the intersection with Estates Drive even that vanished. At the corner, down on the sidewalk in the curve of a split-faced fieldstone wall, he saw three somewhat larger drops, spaced close together, as though Chuck had stood there considering which way to turn. Nothing from there on, one way or the other, on Estates Drive. He had seen no one to ask—no potential witnesses. "Come on, Grunkle Ford!" he muttered coming back to the corner with the blood spots and feeling the afternoon sun warm on his face.

As though in response, his phone chimed. "Hello!"

Ford didn't even greet him before diving in: "Dipper, here's what I have. It's based not only on research but also on my helping Fiddleford clear out some of the things the Northwests left behind when they had to sell their house. Listen carefully."

"I am."

"You may want to take notes."

"I'll remember, just tell me," Dipper said.

"Very well. I'm pretty certain, judging from some things he'd collected—one room was full of Nathaniel Northwest memorabilia, though of course Preston took most of it, but he left some things in bad condition behind—"

"Please, Grunkle Ford! I don't need the whole backstory!"

"Yes, forgive me. Anyway, from some of the memorabilia, it's clear Northwest was a man who believed in superstitions—some of which might not have been just foolish imaginings at all. When he first came to Gravity Falls—the valley, I mean, because the town—"

"Hadn't been built then, I know," Dipper said impatiently. "He started out building a log hut and trading with the Native Americans in the area. I think Pacifica told me that much."

"Yes, trading for furs and food among three tribes: the Shoshone, Klamet, and Liksiyu," Ford agreed. "The valley is near where all three territories touch—but I'm off the subject. Now, you may know that the Indians—I'm sorry, Native Americans, that term wasn't as widely used when I was in school—no, sorry, sidetracked again, let me just go on. The tribes were afraid of the valley and rarely ventured very far in. Northwests' trading post was near the valley entrance, at the Twin Buffs, and the Native Americans warned him of ghosts and spirits farther in."

"Come on, Grunkle Ford!"

"Patience, Dipper! Northwest was interested in their ghost tales and seemed to accept them as true, and so the Native Americans told him more of their beliefs and lore. Anyway, an idea that he may have picked up from one of those groups is that the spirit of a warrior can refuse to go to the afterlife—can become a ghost—and can reincarnate in the body of a descendant or relative. Listen: The possession cannot be complete until the spirit forces the body of its host to 'walk the path of twisting fate.'"

"What does that mean?"

"I have no idea."

Dipper slumped, ready to scream in frustration.

"However, let me tell you a little more that may be a clue," Ford returned. "In one room that Fiddleford and I cleaned out, we found an old notebook pages brown and brittle with age, obviously from the nineteenth century, in which someone had drawn in pencil page after page of labyrinths. The little story about the spirit and possession was on the first page, just six or eight lines, but probably not in Nathaniel's handwriting. He seems to have been next door to illiterate. Perhaps his wife wrote it for him. The drawings of the labyrinths are crude and I think it likely that he did them himself."

"Labyrinth." _Like the one in Greek mythology where Theseus confronted the Minotaur._

"Labyrinth, yes. Not a maze," Ford said. "Most people confuse the two. The difference is—"

"A maze has intersections, different branches and a complex path in and out," Dipper said. "A labyrinth has only one very complex path, and no branches or intersections. With a labyrinth, the goal isn't to find a different way out, but to take a long twisting walk and then retrace your steps back to the entrance, it's a ritual meditation thing, I know."

"Very good!" Ford said. "Now, independently of the old notebook, I have learned that one of the tribes, I think the Liksiyu, though I may be wrong, made ritual labyrinths just for this purpose—not walled in, just patterns of stones laid out on the ground for the host of a possessing spirit to walk, a guide for his or her steps. If Northwest can force your friend to construct one of these and to walk through it and out again, then the possession may become complete. The soul of your friend will be cut loose from his body and Norhtwest will own it for the rest of its life. However, time is of the essence. If it doesn't force the body through the labyrinth ritual, the possessing spirit cannot control the body for more than three days and nights before it will lose its hold, and then the original owner of the body will re-emerge as dominant. You don't want to let that happen. If it does, invariably, though the original spirit is back in the body—the person becomes insane for life."

Dipper's heart pounded. "If I find Chuck, how can I stop that from happening?"

"You must exorcise the possessing spirit. I'll send you full instructions on how to do that by—what is it called? Electric mail?"

"Email," Dipper said. "Do it!"

"Within the hour. I hope all this helps."

Something nagged at Dipper, but it was just beyond his mental reach. "Yeah, it does," he said to Ford. A black-and-white police car with the blue, gold, and white Piedmont Police shield painted on the front door pulled up to the curb near the intersection, stopped, and two patrolmen got out. "Gotta go," Dipper said on the phone. "Call you later."

One of the officers said, "Hey, kid. You Chuck Taylor?"

"No," Dipper said. "I'm his friend, Dipper Pines. I've been following him, though. He cut himself going through the window and left a trail of blood up to here, and it just stops. See these?" He pointed to the three red spots on the sidewalk.

"You have any ID, kid?" the other cop asked.

"I'm too young for a driver's license or learner's permit," Dipper said, taking out his wallet, "but here's my school ID." He pulled out the card, and another one, laminated cardboard, tucked behind it slipped out too and fluttered toward the ground. The first cop caught it in mid-air.

"Mason Pines," the other policeman read from the school ID card. "What did you say your first name was?"

"Dipper," the second one told him.

"It's a nickname," Dipper said. "I don't like my real name."

"Mason's an OK name," the policeman who had caught the dropped card said. Smiling, he held it up and asked, "Official Junior Ghost Harasser, huh?"

"Uh—I was a big fan of that show when I was a kid. I mean younger," Dipper said. "The stars were at a convention in San Francisco, and they handed these out as souvenirs. They've got both the guys' autographs."

"I like that show myself," the policeman said, handing the Ghost Harassers card back.

As Dipper tucked both cards into his wallet, the other cop hunkered down and studied the spatters of blood. "What do you think, Joe?" he asked.

The other policeman looked up and down the street. "No more blood spots?" he asked Dipper.

"No, sir. Not in either direction."

Joe nodded and said, "My guess is he was picked up, Frank."

"Not by one of our cars," Frank said straightening up. "We'd have heard."

"No. I think he waited here and tried to thumb down a passing car. He waited long enough for three drops of blood to fall, and then it happened."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Somebody stopped for him."

"Let's go."

Joe said to Dipper, "Good work, son. You go back now. We've got this."

"Sir," Dipper said, "you ought to know—Chuck's a good guy. Never been in trouble, never. But right now—he's not himself. When you find him, don't hurt him."

"We won't, son. But you have to worry about something else."

"What?"

"He's already hurt himself."


	9. Chapter 9

**Dipper Steps Up**

 **(Piedmont, California, 2014)**

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

A police car had parked in the driveway of the Taylor house. Dipper rang the doorbell, and Mabel answered the ring. "They're in back talking to Chuck's parents right now," she said. "I've already told them what happened."

The Taylors sat side by side at the dining-room table, holding hands, while two plainclothes policemen sat opposite them. As Dipper and Mabel came into the room, he saw that one was tall and built like an athlete, with oddly hooded eyes that made him look almost Asian, the other shorter, more heavy-set, and completely bald. The taller one asked, "Is there any close friend that your son might go to hide out with?" His words sounded businesslike, but the tone was warm.

Mr. Taylor said, "He's got a lot of friends. He's on the high-school baseball team, and sometimes his friends come here and sometimes he goes to their houses. Now and then one of them might spend the night here, or Chuck might do the same at their house. But I don't think any of them would hide him, especially if he's hurt."

"Steve," the bald policeman said, nodding toward Dipper, "this must be the boy that Joe and Frank called in about."

The taller detective looked around. "Mason Pines?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Tell us what happened."

Dipper went through it all: how Chuck seemed to be sick lately, how he had fainted once and blacked out once. He explained how he and Mabel had come over after the game to see how Chuck was, how Mabel had called out when the big crash came, and how he had tracked Chuck by the drops of blood.

"You didn't actually see him, and you don't know how badly he was hurt?" the bald policeman asked.

Dipper shook his head. "I'd bet he cut himself going through the window, though," he said. "I don't think it was too bad. He didn't have any trouble climbing the fence, and he must have been walking pretty fast, so I doubt he hurt his foot or leg."

"How high is the window?" the other detective asked.

"About twenty feet from the ground," Dipper said. "A pretty good drop, but Chuck's athletic."

"Are you sure it was his blood?" the bald one asked.

"Well, yeah," Dipper said. "It was fresh, and there's a splash of it under the window and small streaks on both sides of the fence. I don't think he was bleeding heavily, though. There'd be a drop about every five or six paces, and they were small. They got farther apart as they went along, as though the bleeding was slowing."

The tall detective, Steve, looked impressed. "You're a pretty observant kid."

Dipper didn't know what to say. He just shrugged.

He told the two detectives the names of the kids on the team, and the bald one made notes. Mr. and Mrs. Taylor identified the three that Chuck was closest to, and Steve said, "Meyer, call those names in and get addresses. We'll check them out to make sure Chuck didn't head to one of their houses." Then he thanked Dipper and Mabel and said, "We've got your home number and address. We'll be in touch if we need anything else."

Mabel said, "I hope you find him. Mrs. Taylor, call us if there's anything we can do."

Mrs. Taylor nodded, looking on the verge of tears.

On the walk back to their house, Dipper filled Mabel in on what Ford had told him. "Labyrinth," she murmured. "There's something—what is it? I can't remember!"

When they got home, they told their parents what had happened and asked if they could walk around the neighborhood and try to find someone who might have seen Chuck. Their dad agreed, and they set out on their bikes.

* * *

Half an hour later, after cruising the streets in a kind of widening circle focused on Chuck's house and finding no one who remembered seeing the boy, they rested near the Plaza of Piedmont Park, beneath the shade of a live oak, trying to think of their next move. Then Dipper's phone chimed—Grunkle Ford's ring. "Hello!" Dipper said.

"Dipper," Ford said, "I've got more information for you. Want to take this down?"

"Just a second." Dipper put his phone on speaker, then fished a pocket notebook from his vest. "Mabel's here, too," he said. He briefly explained that the police were looking for Chuck.

"All right," Ford said. "Here's what I found: He can't simply construct a labyrinth. It must be one that already exists, preferably an ancient one, like those the Native Americans used for meditation. Are there any of those nearby that your friend might have known about?"

"I don't know!" Dipper said.

"Yes!" Mabel said. "Oh, my gosh! Now I remember! Dipper, when we were about six or eight years old, Dad and Mom took us to the Round Peak Volcanic Park, remember? That's not far! And there was this weird sort of, I don't know, crop circle thingy, except it wasn't wheat, it was rocks piled up in patterns on the ground—"

"I do remember!" Dipper said. "You could see it from the trail, down in a kind of valley!"

"Would your friend have known about it?" Ford asked.

Mabel said, "Let me call and ask." She took out her phone and walked a little apart.

"All right," Ford said. "If that's where he's gone, listen carefully: The ritual must be performed as the sun is setting. He'd have to invoke the ancient powers with a series of chants—and I know that Nathaniel knew these, because some of them are written on the final pages of that old book in his awkward pencil printing, phonetic equivalents of Liksiyu words. Fiddleford helped me translate enough of them to tell they're what he would use."

"How do we stop him?" Dipper asked.

"You have to prevent him from completing the chant. If you can't do that, you must force him to take a backward step or to step outside the lines as he walks the labyrinth. If you manage it, Nathaniel's spirit will lose its hold on your friend. Or if you can keep him from leaving the labyrinth until after the sun has completely set, that would do it, too. But he'll be desperate—and remember, it will look like your friend, but unless you can cast Nathaniel's spirit out, it'll be him in control."

"No chants or anything we could use against him? No magic?"

"I'm sorry, Dipper, no. Everything hinges on stopping or interrupting the possession ritual, and it may be very dangerous. I wish I could be there!"

Mabel came running back. "His mom Chuck did a report on the rock maze for school one year!" she said. "Dipper, Mrs. Taylor will drive us over! Her husband's out driving around with the police, looking for Chuck!"

"His mother won't understand— " Ford started.

Mabel interrupted: "Yeah, she will! She knows about the ghost! She saw him once!"

"Oh," Ford said. "Well. Then—what you must do is get to this location before sunset—is that possible?"

"Yeah, if we hurry," Dipper said.

"Then go! Go as soon as you can and remember what I said! And be careful, Dipper! I hate to see this, but—don't trust your friend! He's not in control of himself. No matter what he says, don't trust him!"

"We got that covered, Grunkle Ford," Mabel said. "I've dealt with this before!"

"I—I beg your pardon?"

"Long story," Dipper said. "Tell you later."

"Both of you—be very careful!"

"We will. Gotta go!"

They raced toward the Taylor house, with Mabel on the phone, talking to Mrs. Taylor and barely missing parked cars and the occasional startled dog. They skidded into the yard and saw Mrs. Taylor already at the wheel of her gray Honda CRV, the engine running. She motioned to them, and they piled into the car, Mabel in the front, Dipper in the back seat. "Are you sure about this?" she asked.

"Yes!" Dipper said. "We have to hurry!"

"We need to get there before the sun goes down," Mabel added.

"Fasten your seatbelts," Mrs. Taylor said.

For all the urgency, though, the trip went slower than they wanted—Saturday-afternoon traffic thronged the streets, and what might have been a fifteen-minute drive under ideal conditions stretched into half an hour—though once Mrs. Taylor turned off Snake Road and onto Skyline Boulevard the going grew easier. She turned into the visitor's lot at a little past six-forty, with sunset still thirty or forty minutes away. Dipper noticed that the park hours were seven a.m. to ten p.m.—plenty of time, if they could just find Chuck first.

The Visitors' Center was not manned, but people came by laughing and talking, many of them with dogs on leashes. "The fastest way is up Water Tank Road," Chuck's mom said. "I don't know if anyone will stop us, but here goes!"

It was only a cracked, one-lane asphalt access road, and it went steeply uphill. "I kind of remember this park from when we were little," Dipper said. "I'd forgotten it was so close to Piedmont!"

"Yeah," Mabel said, turning around in the front seat. "It's an actual extinct volcano called Round Top."

"The labyrinths are visible from the trail called Round Top Loop," Mrs. Taylor said. Dipper held on—the small SUV bucketed over the rough pavement. "When he was in the fifth grade, Chuck was crazy about volcanoes. We came here several times, and he did a report for school about the volcano. It erupted, I think, ten million years ago." She hit a bump that made them reach for handholds "Sorry! Some of the labyrinths are recent, sort of works of art, but the big circle, they think was made hundreds of years ago by Miwok Indians."

They reached a barrier across the road and had to stop, but Round Top Loop passed right across the way—a foot trail, marked by a directional sign. As they got out and hurried along the path, Dipper told Mrs. Taylor what Ford had said. "We won't hurt him," he promised, "but remember, Chuck isn't in control right now. It's your ancestor, Nathaniel Northwest, who's trying to take him over for good."

"My brother got taken over when we were twelve," Mabel panted—they were all but jogging. "By an evil nacho chip! Who was a being of pure energy with no weaknesses, so I had to tickle him into submission!"

"What?"

"He was really an interdimensional demon, not a ghost," Dipper said. "But it was the same principle."

"It should be right ahead, off to the left," Mrs. Taylor said. She stopped. "We—we should be able to see it from here! It was right down there!"

Dipper looked past her. The ridge fell away to the left, leveling out—but it leveled into a valley like an enormous shallow salad bowl, the bottom tumbled with stones in no shape or order and spiked with weeds and seedlings. "I don't remember," he said.

"I'm almost sure this is the right place," Mabel said. "Could somebody have bulldozed all the rocks? Or moved them by magic?"

"Or—hid them with magic," Dipper said. "I'm going down."

"Wait!" Mrs. Taylor said, her voice changing to a husky, exhausted kind of hoarse croak. "I might be wrong. It could be farther along the trail. I'm winded."

"The sign back there said 'Circle Labyrinth ½ mile,'" Dipper told her. "This should be it." He looked over his shoulder. "And the sun will be down in a few minutes!"

He ran down the steep slope, having to take uncomfortably long steps. He heard Mabel yell, "Wait up, Dip!" and Mrs. Taylor shouted, her voice rasping even more, "Please, no!"

But—he waded into the earth itself! Or seemed to—the floor of the valley shimmered around his knees, his waist, his chest—it was an illusion. The second his head sank beneath the mirage, he saw the circular labyrinth, maybe seventy feet in diameter, a narrow winding intricate rock-lined path following the outer edge, doubling back, doubling again, crooked and confusing, leading to a center where a nearly spherical black boulder brooded.

And he saw Chuck.

The boy sat on the earth at the opening into the labyrinth, looking limp as a rag doll that had been propped there. He did not move, but Dipper could hear the drone of his voice, buzzing and harsh as a locust's stridulation: " _Immani k'challa t'sun damvani kulo nunika t'skalla unul ai! Ai!"_

"Chuck!" Dipper shouted and ran toward his friend.

"Stop!" The word hit him like the lash of a whip. He spun.

Mrs. Taylor stood glaring at him, dust sticking to the sweat on her face. Mabel stood in front of her, her face twisted in a grimace of pain. It looked as if Chuck's mom had wrenched her arm into a painful hold. "I had to be here," she said harshly. "I was going to send you two ahead, but no. Boy, did your research tell you that Nathaniel Northwest wasn't just a rich man, but a master of magic?"

"Wh-what?" Dipper asked.

"That time when this one was young and saw his ghost in the old house . . . she didn't back away. She went . . . inside."

Mrs. Taylor shoved Mabel, who stumbled forward, arms flailing for balance. Dipper caught her and saw Mrs. Taylor weaving her hands and arms in a strange pattern. He heard her words: "Blood be ice, breath be gone, flesh be clay, bone be stone!"

And, holding Mabel, he felt himself freeze into place, like the time he had been turned to wood—he couldn't move, couldn't speak. He felt Mabel go rigid, too.

But this time he could both see and hear. "I'm stronger than you imagine, boy," Mrs. Taylor said, her voice reverberating strangely, as if alternating between male and female. "Even unhoused from flesh, an exiled spirit, I have dominion sufficient to capture both the mother and the son, though I can move my puppets but one at a time. I'll leave this one for now."

Mrs. Taylor went limp, her knees buckling, and she fell forward on her face, thudding to the stony, sandy earth, and lay still. Instantly Chuck stood, his left arm dangling, dried blood streaking his forearm. Dipper saw he wore socks, no shoes, and that they had become so tattered he stood almost barefoot.

Chuck, or Chuck's body laughed. "There remains the journey in, the journey out," he said, his voice rattling with that weird duality, ancient buzzing insect and fifteen-year-old boy. He glanced at the setting sun. "My time is almost at hand. I will go in as leech but emerge as the only soul within this body. I limp in crippled, but stride out with the power of instantly healing this broken arm. I step in diminished, but I will step forth with my full magic restored to me." He raised his right hand as though clutching something from the air. "I will hold the mastery of life and death in my grasp. And when I return to live again—the three of you will have to die."

Laughing, he turned his back on them and stepped into the labyrinth.


	10. Chapter 10

**Dipper Steps Up**

 **(Piedmont, California, 2014)**

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

Dipper strained to move—to yell, anything. He felt as if his brain had just disconnected from his muscles. Oh, he could still _feel_ —he still hugged Mabel, and he could feel her breathing, feel her exhalations warm on his neck. But he couldn't move, not an inch.

Chuck walked slowly, chanting in that bizarre buzzy insect-like way, step by step. The sun had nearly touched the horizon. _Not much time, not much time—_

"Guh!" Mabel had managed a grunt!

He tried to call her name but got out only a moaning _Muh_ sound.

"Pah!" she said.

 _Nathaniel's attention must be on his chant. Maybe his spell is weakening. If I can just—uhhh—no, still can't move—_

"Pah! Pah!" Mabel whispered in his ear.

 _Just move my foot, just get a start—_

"Paht! Paht!"

It hit him then. Maybe the force needed to overcome the dark magic spell wasn't willpower. Maybe it was as simple as his wanting to protect his sister and her wanting to protect him. Dipper held his breath. He felt as if he were diving inside of himself, scubaing way down into the depths of his heart, down to the secret bond that linked twins, the strong bond of love. If anything would give him the power to defy the spell, this was it—

They both said it together: "Pat! Pat!"

And—they did it.

And just like that the ice thawed, the chains broke, and Dipper could move.

Already Chuck had reached the center of the labyrinth and had reversed direction, already he paced back around the expanding spirals toward the entrance, already the sun had half disappeared—

Dipper didn't waste time or breath on yelling, but let go of Mabel and ran full-out, fast as he'd ever run. He reached the labyrinth entrance—something told him not to cross the lines, but to follow the winding trail where he'd have to confront Chuck on the way out, where Dipper could block his path. Chuck's face writhed, but he didn't speak anything other than his droning chant—

 _Nathaniel can't cast another spell at us until he finishes the ritual!_

Dipper threw himself at Chuck, shoved him, tried to force him into a false step, but Chuck was older, taller, stronger. He had braced and Dipper might as well have charged into a tree. With his good arm, Chuck struck at Dipper, and Dipper caught the blow on his cheek and nose. Yellow light flashed, but he lowered his head and tried to grapple with the taller teen.

Chuck hit him again, hard in the stomach, taking the wind out of him. Dipper fell, gasping, and Chuck stepped over his legs, Dipper struggled to stand, but as he did Chuck marched steadily along, now only seconds from the exit and from triumph.

Grunting, Dipper got to his knees, then tried to stand, his legs rubbery beneath him. Just as he made it to his feet, he saw Mabel throw herself on Chuck, only three steps in from the exit. She hugged him and said, "I won't let you!"

Chuck snarled and raised his fist again.

And Mabel took advantage of the opening to—

Kiss Chuck right on the mouth. Hard. Silencing him!

His punch turned into a frantic attempt to yank her away, his hand caught in her hair. She pressed even tighter. Her eyes stayed open, and she saw Dipper come up behind and drop to all fours right behind Chuck's knees.

Then she broke the kiss and yelled, "Gotcha, sucka!" Her knee came up fast, and Chuck flinched reflexively, as all teenage boys would do—but instead of planting her knee in his groin, Mabel put her hands against his chest and _shoved._

Dipper had been the victim of the trick many times in his school career. This was the first time he'd pulled it, but he had learned well. Chuck stumbled away from Mabel, caught the hollows of his knees against Dipper's back, and toppled—across the stone lines, breaking the enchantment!

The sun vanished.

Instantly a hurricane wind sprang up—blowing outwards in all directions from the center of the labyrinth. A rush of dust and grit blasted Mabel right off her feet and half-blinded Dipper. His baseball cap flew off his head and vanished. Chuck, rolling to his hands and knees, screamed, "Nooo!" in that half-and-half voice, but the rasping part scaled down, and it ended pure Chuck, a cry of pain and horror.

"Son?" His mom, weakly.

Dipper went straight to Mabel, who was sitting up rubbing the back of her head. "Ow! Owie ow ouch ow!"

"You OK?" Dipper asked.

"Bumped my head on a dumb _rock_! Is my nose bleeding?"

Dipper shook his head. "I think you're gonna have a black eye, though," he said, noticing the swelling. "And you scraped up your chin when you fell."

"Oh, darn!" Mabel put her palm up to her eye. "Yeah, I feel it. I think I need another hug!"

They embraced, briefly, and then they both helped Chuck up. "You OK, buddy?" Dipper asked.

He staggered in place, and Dipper had to steady him. "What—what happened?" he asked. "Where are we?"

"Please, come and help me." Mrs. Taylor couldn't stand up. Mabel ran to her and held onto her as she regained her feet. Like her son, she seemed unsteady.

Dipper put his arm around Chuck and said, "Lean on me. Come on."

For the first time, Dipper thought, Chuck realized his mother was having trouble. "Mom? Mom!"

"Let's go." Dipper led him out, deliberately stepping across the lines of stones—just in case—and Chuck didn't even notice. Mrs. Taylor was holding out her arms.

Dipper and Mabel got them together, and they hugged as if they would never let go. Mabel took Dipper's hand and whispered to him, "Is—is he gone? Old Nathaniel?"

"I don't know," Dipper said. "But we're gonna need help." He took out his phone and punched in 911. As a start.

* * *

The two detectives met them where Round Top Loop Trail crossed Water Tank Road. Just getting back up the steep slope had been the worst part of the struggle back—but Dipper had looked down from the crest of the climb, and the illusion had dissipated. The labyrinth lay clear in the gathering twilight. The four of them limped all the way back and met the two detectives coming to find them. The taller one, Steve, picked up Chuck, who was drifting in and out of consciousness. "Looks like a broken arm," he said.

The bald one, Meyer, helped Mrs. Taylor, who kept murmuring, "How did we get here?"

When they reached the Taylors' car, Meyer said, "I'll drive you in."

Mrs. Taylor gave him the keys as though she still felt numb. He helped her into the passenger seat, though she resisted and said, "I want to stay with Chuck."

"We'll take him to the hospital," Meyer said. "I'll drive you in. You'll see him there. I'll call in and have your husband meet us."

He expertly turned the car and rumbled ahead of the others down the narrow access road.

"You two come with me," Steve said.

Though Chuck must have been heavy, the weight didn't didn't slow the detective down. When they reached the unmarked police car, Steve said, "Open the back door. Mason, do you want to ride in back? Someone needs to make sure he doesn't roll off the seat."

"I'll do it," Mabel said. She climbed in, Steve lay Chuck on the seat, and his head rested on her knee. She held him. "It'll be OK now," she said. He had passed out and didn't reply.

Dipper sat beside Steve, who put a flasher on the roof and turned on a siren. They roared out of the park and turned toward the hospital.

* * *

Hours later, at a little past ten p.m., as they sat in the hospital waiting room with the Taylors and their parents, Dipper and Mabel suddenly looked at each other, their eyes widening, as a familiar voice echoed out in the hall. They jumped up from their chairs and ran to the door—and in walked Grunkle Ford, dressed in a sharp-looking suit.

"You came!" Dipper said.

"Drove to Portland this afternoon and just barely caught a plane," he said. He murmured a hello to Mr. and Mrs. Pines and then said, "Who's the doctor on the case?"

"Philgrew," Mr. Taylor said.

"I'm Dr. Stanford Pines," Grunkle Ford said. "I've come to consult on Chuck's problem. My nurse is in the hall. You folks sit tight, and I'll report to you as soon as I can."

Dipper and Mabel exchanged another puzzled glance. Ford herded them out with him. Dipper said, "Grunkle Ford, I knew you had a medical degree—"

"That'll get me in to see your friend," Ford said. "But it's not the most important thing right now. Nurse, bring my case, please."

"'Kay, dude."

Dipper's head whipped around. His jaw dropped. The gorgeous nurse in hospital whites winked at him. "How's it hangin', Dip? Man, Mabel, how'd your face get all jacked up?"

"No time right now." Ford led them to the nurse's station, where he flashed his credentials and said, "I was called in by the CDC. It's imperative that I examine this patient immediately."

And somehow, with the twins and Wendy in tow, Ford got them into a room where orderlies were just taking Chuck off a gurney and putting him into a hospital bed. Dr. Philgrew, an older man with bushy white eyebrows came in. Ford introduced himself and explained, "I'm a specialist in tropical fevers. The CDC wants me to examine this patient, Charles Taylor, for possible Benengeli infection."

Dr. Philgrew blinked. "Bene—I don't—"

"It's very rare in this hemisphere," Ford said. "Fortunately, it's not terribly contagious, and I think if this _is_ a case we've caught it time. You may have read my monograph on the diagnosis and treatment of Benengeli fever in the _British Journal of Exotic Pathogens."_

"Oh, yes—well, no, no—"

"I'll send you an offprint. May I examine this young man now?"

"Yes, I suppose—he's still emerging from sedation, you see. He had a broken arm. We've set it and applied a cast, as you see. I have his chart here."

"Splendid," Ford put his hand on the older man's shoulder. "You've done well. Let me have thirty minutes for the examination, and then if necessary we'll need to consult on the course of treatment. Why don't you go grab yourself a cup of coffee? You look exhausted."

"Yes. Well. I'll be back in a few minutes." Still looking confused, the doctor left them.

"Wendy," Ford said, bending over the sleeping Chuck and shining a small flashlight in his eyes, "get me the psychic resonance detector. The one with the two antennae, shaped like a Y."

"Here you go," Wendy said, opening the case and handing Ford the device. He extended the antennae, switched it on and swept it over the unconscious Chuck.

"Wendy!" Dipper said. "I'm so glad to see you!"

She grinned and reached out to ruffle his hair. "Love that birthmark, Dipper! Yeah, Ford needed somebody to tag along, an' Stanley hates to fly, an' I wanted to see you two again, so—" she shrugged. "Dad let me go. Mission of mercy an' all that! How do I look as a nurse?"

"Sexy!" Dipper said, then clapped his hand over his mouth, turning red.

"Take that as a compliment!" Mabel advised Wendy.

"Of course I do," she said. "How's it goin', Doc?"

"No traces of possession, no indication of a ghostly presence," Ford said. "That's a relief. Get me a Band-Aid, a small one."

"Is he gonna be all right?" Mabel asked, going to the bedside.

"I think so," Ford said. "I intend to provide him and his mother with wards to prevent the ghost from trying again—though typically one failed possession locks the ghost out forever from any second attempt. But I'm just not sure about Nathaniel Northwest."

He taped the small bandage onto Chuck's upper arm, above the cast. Chuck's eyes fluttered open, and he looked past Ford. "Mabel," he said, a goofy smile spreading over his face.

"Hi," she said, stepping past her great-uncle and taking Chuck's hand. "You're gonna be OK."

"Let me just look at you," he whispered.

"Aw, don't look. I know my face is a mess," Mabel told him. "I kinda fell."

"No, I want to look at you. 'Cause you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen," Chuck told her.

"Oh!" Mabel said. "Well! That's a surprise."

Wendy said, "Guys, let's step into the hall for a minute."

They did, and while they waited, Dr. Philgrew returned. "How is the young man?" he asked.

"He had early-stage Benengeli," Ford said. "Fortunately, the antiviral I brought with me is close to a hundred per cent effective at this stage. I've injected him, and he should be well on his way to recovery by tomorrow morning. I'll return and check him again—say at nine-thirty?"

"That will be fine," Dr. Philgrew told him.

"Of course, I'll also examine his family just to be sure, but generally this virus is transmitted either by anopheles—there was a brief flare-up of them after all the rains, and I believe that started the small outbreak in this area—or by direct contact with an infected person's blood. Fortunately, the course of the disease is quite slow, and the CDC believed we had completely contained it. This one showed up late and must be the last case."

"Oh, I haven't heard about—"

"You did hear about the mosquito-control efforts, though," Ford said.

"Why, yes, of course—"

Ford nodded. "That was linked to controlling Benengeli fever. It's rarely fatal, but it does cause alarming effects—high fever in the late stages, with confusion and a tendency to faint throughout. But it clears up rapidly. Thank you for your great help, Doctor, and I will return tomorrow morning."

"How long should the patient remain hospitalized?" Dr. Philgrew asked anxiously.

"Hmmm. If he's alert tomorrow and my examination shows no sign of active virus, he may return home tomorrow afternoon. Is that satisfactory?"

"Oh, yes, completely. Dr. Ford, I must say—I looked your papers up on the computer—very impressive, sir."

"Thank you, Doctor," Ford said gravely. "I value your opinion. Let's take a quick look and see how our patient is doing."

Their patient was sitting up in bed, holding Mabel's hand, and having an animated conversation with her. "Well on the way to a complete recovery," Ford said. "Come, Miss, the young man needs his rest tonight. He'll be going home tomorrow."

In the waiting room, Ford gave them the good news. He suggested that Mr. Taylor go in to say goodnight to his son, and then as soon as he had left, Ford took Mrs. Taylor aside, checked her with his detection devices, and very briefly told her at least a part of the truth. "I knew there was something evil about that old house," she murmured. "Now I remember from when I was just a little child—I _did_ step inside it, and then I just passed out. My mom and dad found me just inside the doorway."

"Nathaniel put his mark on you then," Ford said. "He didn't want to possess _you_ —he wanted a male descendant of his runaway daughter. None other was alive at that moment, so Nathaniel decided to wait. When Chuck was born, he became the only possible target for possession. Nathaniel could find Chuck through the mark he'd put on you. This happens to be a year of increased power for him, so he decided to strike. Now we've defeated him and his power is gone, but just in case, I'll give you this to wear." He handed her a thin necklace with a tiny gem. "Tell your husband it's a family heirloom or a lucky charm or something—and don't take it off, day or night, until Chuck has turned twenty-one. When he safely passes that birthday, you'll know you both are truly immune to Nathaniel's attacks forever. I'll give him something like this tomorrow as well. Are you staying over?"

Mrs. Taylor nodded. "My husband is going home. He'll come in tomorrow morning and take over while I get some rest."

"I'll stop at the nurse's station," Ford said. "I'm sure they can set up a cot in Chuck's room for you. He'll sleep pretty soundly tonight. Tomorrow his arm will hurt, but that's normal and it will heal."

Wendy and Ford had rented a car—Wendy was driving, because as she said, "Your uncle's an OK dude, but he scares the pee out of me when he drives!" They would stay overnight with the Pines family—Ford would take the guest room and Dipper volunteered to sleep on the sofa so Wendy could have his bed.

Mr. and Mrs. Pines set out for home in their car. Ford said he and Wendy would drive the twins to the Taylors' house so they could collect their bikes, then drive along with them—slowly—to their own house.

Dipper and Mabel got in the back seat and buckled up. Before starting the engine, Wendy turned around in the driver's seat and smiled back at them. "Well, dudes, looks like you handled ol' Northwest pretty well. Wish I'd been in on it! My great-great whatever Archibald would've liked that. Mabes, how're you doin'? You're awfully quiet."

"Uh," Mabel said. "That's just 'cause—I think I might be engaged now!"


	11. Chapter 11

**Dipper Steps Up**

 **(Piedmont, California, 2014)**

* * *

 **Chapter 11**

Wendy tiptoed downstairs early the next morning and woke Dipper. "Hey, dude," she said, sitting on the sofa next to where he lay huddled in a blanket. "Wanna go for a walk and show me your nabe?"

"Uh—what?" Dipper asked, holding onto the blanket a little more tightly.

"Your neighborhood, man!" Wendy said, grinning. "See, I've only ever been to California like three times before this, and we never got anywhere near as far south as the Bay area. I wanna see where you live."

"S-sure," Dipper said. "Where are my, uh, jeans?"

"Here ya go."

He took them. "Th-thanks. If, uh, you know, you might want to step into the hall—"

"C'mon, man! I got three brothers! I gotta take you campin' so you can get over some of these hang-ups! Or—hey, don't tell me you sleep _raw_?" She playfully grabbed the blanket, and he held on to make sure she couldn't yank it down.

She flipped it up instead. "Yup," she said. "I kinda figured you for a tighty-whitey guy. Get your jeans and shoes on. We don't have a whole lot of time."

She had changed to her normal outfit of green plaid flannel shirt over a white undershirt, jeans, her logging boots—and Dipper's pine-tree hat. He donned her trapper hat, and she chuckled. "Remember, dude, we have a date in June to meet in the Shack and exchange headgear again!"

They sauntered along the rows of houses, Dipper stammering out an excuse that it was only suburbia, after all. "Yeah," she said, "but it's interesting to me! I mean, my whole life we've lived away out in the woods, like five miles from our closest neighbor. This looks friendlier."

He had the inspiration to take her to Piedmont Park, which meandered for a good many acres and featured hills, a small stream (complete with waterfall), a fountain—normal park stuff, as Soos might say. And on the trail, she—she reached out and took his hand. "You were real brave," Wendy said. "Mabel told me all about it."

Dipper shrugged. "Chuck's a good friend. Couldn't let a ghost get him."

"Yeah, but Ford says old Nathaniel always held a grudge in life. You watch your butt from now on, hear? And if you see any sign of him, you get on the horn to me right away. Don't wait until he shows up dragging a chain through your bedroom or some junk."

A couple of fit-looking women in headbands and leotards, out jogging on this early Sunday morning, ran toward them, chatting. They waved and smiled.

When they had pounded past, Dipper said miserably. "Now they'll talk about how I'm way too short for you. And too young. They'll make fun of us."

She squeezed his hand. "So what? Let 'em giggle. And you know, you've grown like four inches since last summer. I think I finally leveled off, so you're catchin' up a little." They stopped in the middle of a wooden bridge, and Wendy added, "Mm, we could almost be out in the woods here. This is nice, man. Hey, let me see if you're really too short for me."

Dipper wasn't prepared. She leaned—just a little—and kissed him quickly on the lips. Then, ruffling his hair and smiling, she whispered, "Mm, dude, not too short at all."

For the rest of the way, he walked on air.

* * *

Ford insisted that Mabel and Dipper accompany him and Wendy to the hospital. They arrived a little ahead of time. Though Chuck was sleeping, Mrs. Taylor was already awake, and they found an empty waiting room for a quick conversation. "I keep hearing what a wonderful doctor you are," she said.

Ford shrugged. "Mostly based on a few papers I did for medical journals. I'm not in practice. However, this is—a special case, as you know. Tell me: How much does Chuck remember?"

She shook her head. "Not very much at all. From the time he blacked out, he says he just has flashes, like pieces of a dream that he's almost forgotten. He sort of remembers jumping out the window, but then nothing until Dipper and Mabel pushed him down in the labyrinth."

"That's when the spirit of Nathaniel Northwest was forced out of him," Ford said.

"He—he says he felt—not angry at them, but—but sad, because it was like he'd lost something."

"His own spirit was dormant within him," Ford said. "Believe me, if the kids had been just a minute late, Chuck would have been thrust completely out of his body, fully aware—but invisible. He would have become the ghost, and Nathaniel would have taken over his body completely."

"And that's a terrible feeling," Dipper said. When Mrs. Taylor stared at him, he added, "I know. Don't ask me how, but I do."

A few minutes later, Chuck woke up still feeling a little groggy, and his left arm obviously hurt him. He acted embarrassed when Mabel kissed his cheek. "I, uh—was I talking crazy yesterday, Mabel?"

"Meh," she said, shrugging. "Nothing so cray-cray that I hated it!" She glanced around and lowered her voice. "So—you still want to hang out with me?"

"Yeah!" he said, and immediately blushed.

"You got it," Mabel said happily.

Ford, Dipper, and his mom explained to him exactly what had happened, and he grew pale. But then Ford handed Mabel a thin chain with a tiny gem. "Give it to him," he said. When Chuck took it from her, Ford said seriously, "Chuck, this will protect you. We can't destroy a ghost, but we've dealt him a blow that he'll have to recover from before he can be a threat. As long as you wear this, you're safe. Now, when you're twenty-one, the threat is over. You can take it off the day after your twenty-first birthday—but hang on to it. When you marry, and if you have children, pass it along to your first son."

Now Chuck blushed again. He looked sideways at Mabel. "Uh—what if it's twins?"

Dipper had to turn away to keep from laughing where Chuck could see him. But Ford very seriously said, "One will still be the first-born son, and he's the one you have to protect. Remember that."

Dipper recovered his poise and said, "Until then, tell the guys on the team that a girl—"

" _Your_ girl," Wendy corrected. Mabel giggled.

"Your girl," Dipper continued, "gave it to you and it's your lucky charm."

Chuck sighed. "I—won't be on the team," he said. "Broken arm will put me out for the rest of the season."

"Next year, then!" Mabel said. "'Cause you're no quitter!"

Chuck reached for her hand. "Next year," he said, making it sound like a promise.

* * *

All too soon, Ford and Wendy had to leave for the Oakland airport—"Second time I've been in a plane, guys!" Wendy said. "Stanley told me it would be awful, but I like it!"

Practice started again Monday afternoon. The team heard the news and practice went—well, terrible, to be honest. As Coach Waylund patiently pointed out the many errors and problems, Dipper said, "Uh, Coach? Chuck will come back to school on Wednesday or Thursday. Is it OK if he comes to practice? To, you know, watch and advise us?"

"I'll be disappointed if he doesn't," Waylund said. "Tell him that. By the way, Pines, where's your cap?"

"Uh, it, uh, blew off," Dipper said. "I couldn't find it."

"Well, pick up a replacement before Saturday's game," Waylund said. "That fur thing is an interesting fashion statement, but it won't do for playing baseball. Did you go back and look for the cap?"

"I couldn't find it," Dipper said. That was a white lie. A team of horses chained to him couldn't drag him back to that labyrinth.

Chuck made it to Thursday practice, not dressed out, but wearing his own cap. He watched the guys practice fielding, and during a break he called Dipper over. "Take off your trapper hat," he said. Then he clapped his own baseball cap onto Dipper's head. "Here, use mine. I won't need it for the rest of the season."

Dipper touched the brim. "Aw—thanks, man. Up high!"

Mabel had started coming to every single practice—in fact now she sat in the dugout—and she said, "Don't worry, Chuck, I'll buy you a new one myself! And Brobro, don't you ever get rid of that one! That's _your_ lucky charm!"

* * *

The Saturday game was against the Palo Alto Pirates—not a game that the team would dread, ordinarily, since the Panthers and Pirates were on a roughly equal footing and had very similar win-loss records.

However, without Chuck . . ..

In the locker room, guys got dressed out and sat in gloom on the benches, muttering to each other and pounding their fists in their gloves. Dipper felt edgy and couldn't stop pacing, his cleats clicking on the tile floor. He had a sinking feeling that everything was about to go wrong—and it would be mostly his fault. He'd been lousy in the last three practices.

He kept adjusting Chuck's cap on his head and telling himself, "Calm down, calm down, calm down!" That only made him more nervous.

Then he heard a couple of guys yell, and he turned to see Chuck grinning, wearing his jersey—except only one button was buttoned, so it could hang over his cast like a cloak. He was high-fiving everyone, Barb, Bobby, Petey, Kenk. "So, who died?" he yelled. "C'mon, you guys, show a little life! The Pirates are pushovers!"

He scooped up Dipper's batting helmet and smooshed it into Hi-Ho's face. "Smells like victory!" Chuck yelled.

"Foo! Victory stinks, man!" Hi-Ho shot back, shoving the smelly helmet away. He hugged Chuck, carefully, avoiding the cast, which now sported dozens of autographs, including the whole team, plus a great big red heart with MABEL in squooshy-looking balloon letters. "Seriously, dude, good to have you here. You gonna sit in the dugout?"

"Duh!" Chuck said. "I'm gonna keep notes, too, so you guys play good, or you'll have to answer to me."

Well, that was a positive send-off. Too bad it didn't last.

The game didn't begin badly. The Pirates won the toss and chose to bat first—always their preference, because their coach believed getting on the board early was a key to shaking up an opposing team. They did score one run, but in the bottom of the second Piedmont not only tied, but got one up when Mike crossed the plate. Unfortunately, the next batter popped out and the Panthers took the field again.

Dipper couldn't shake his attack of nerves. He kept pounding his glove and scraping his cleats as he played second, but he had the panicky feeling that if he went for a line drive he'd miss it. Or fumble the ball when trying to tag out a runner. Do something stupid.

Mabel, who had become a crowd favorite, was working extra hard, boogying, turning cartwheels, leaping, leading enthusiastic cheers. That day, she seemed more a distraction than a morale booster to Dipper. He felt bad that Chuck was watching his lackluster performance and kept thinking how much better it would be if Chuck could stand on the mound.

By the time the fifth inning ended, each team had upped its score, and the teams were locked in a 3-3 tie. And as the sixth started, everything just fell apart.

The first Pirate up to bat hit a clean single, and he led off first base so far that Dipper kept trying to send telepathic messages to Jon-J on the mound: _Throw to first!_

It didn't work. The next man up smacked a long fly past Petey, the right fielder, who finally backpedaled and misjudged it, catching it on the bounce. He threw to Dipper, but wide, and though Dipper managed—barely—to get to the throw and catch it, the runner was already standing on second base. Dipper threw the ball to the pitcher and watched Jon-J shaking his head and smacking the ball hard into his glove. Bobby, catching, sent him two signals that he shook off.

Jon-J had a good fastball, and he tried it. The batter swung, missing by a mile. That seemed to give Jon-J heart, and he threw a deliberate ball, then sizzled another fastball past the batter for a called strike. He risked one more fastball—and the batter fanned it. The next man up, though, the biggest player for the Pirates, hit another single, sending a man home and putting the Pirates up by one run. And the next Pirate virtually copied the previous one, batting in another runner.

Maybe Jon-J had strained his arm. He walked the next man, loading the bases. And the next batter smacked a weak flyball that Dipper backed up and easily caught, firing it to Bobby for a double play.

The Panthers went in to bat with the score five to three, Pirates leading. Kenk got a single—barely running out the throw to first—but then Mike, who seemed as worried as Dipper felt, misjudged every pitch and went down swinging. Petey popped out. JD and Barb both got singles, loading the bases—and then Jon-J, who looked exhausted, struck out on four pitches, just managing a weak foul tip on one.

At the top of the seventh, Jon-J put his heart into pitching, but he was obviously tired and shaken up. The first Pirate up hit a fly straight into the center fielder's glove. The next one got a single on Jon-J's first pitch. The next hit to right field, where Petey DeFoy, maybe trying to compensate for his weak performance earlier in the game, bobbled the catch, temporarily lost the ball, and then hesitated before deciding where to throw it. The error stretched a single into a double and brought in another Pirate run. Even worse, Jon-J, now badly shaken, walked the next batter, again loading the bases.

To Dipper's surprise, the coach called a time out and motioned him to come in as he walked to the mound. He got there in time to hear Waylund say, "Your call, son."

Miserably, Jon-J said, "I can't concentrate, Coach. And my arm's gone. Pull me out."

"You got it. Good try, though. Pines—take the mound."

"Wh-what?" Dipper stammered. "Coach, no, I can't—"

"Taylor says you can."

Dipper looked over at the dugout. Chuck stood waving at him, and he gave Dipper a thumbs-up.

"Take the mound, son," Waylund said kindly. "Keep your mind in the game and do your best. That's all we're asking."

Dipper warmed up, but he wasn't used to pitching. Bobby helpfully offered suggestions by means of signals from behind home plate. Dipper took them all.

Oddly, his inexperience seemed an advantage at first. He could hit the strike zone, but his pitches were erratic enough to baffle the first man up, who popped a little looper right to first base, where it was caught and fired home before the Pirates could try for another run. The next batter swung at two of Dipper's pitches—not fastballs, exactly, and not curves, but, well, dippers—but then connected for a single. And another run crossed the plate, putting the Pirates up 7-3, with the bases still loaded.

As if from a great distance, he heard Mabel off in front of the grandstand: "Dipper! Dipper! Put him out! That's what pitching's all about!"

 _Do it for sis._

He took a deep breath and pitched. Swung on for strike one. He considered the second and went for the outside corner, just missing it. Ball one. Strike zone again, but a little high—and the batter got a piece of it, sending a skipping grounder off to Dipper's left. Dipper lunged for it, fielded it, and whipped it to Bobby, who got the runner out as he started a desperate slide.

Then as they came to bat, it was do-or-die time for the Panthers. X-man, who looked exhausted, struck out and plodded back to the dugout. Hi-Ho got a respectable double—though he barely beat the throw to second. Bobby, who acted a little fresher than the rest of the team, hit what first looked like a home run, but it lost altitude going into the slot between left and center field, and the center fielder was just a little too slow and the hit ran out of steam and bounced off the chain-link fence. Still, Bobby, too, made it to second, and Hi-Ho scored.

And there the rally ended. Dub popped out. Dipper stepped to the plate tense and shaking, his hands soaked with sweat inside the batting gloves. He couldn't control his breathing or his pounding heart.

He was just as bad at bat as he had been back in the fall at the first practice. With the sweat of anxiety stinging his eyes, he couldn't judge the pitches and struck out one, two, three, even going after an impossible outside ball.

The Panthers lost seven to four.

And Dipper dragged into the dugout thinking _It's all my fault._

He had no option. For the good of the team—

He'd have to quit.


	12. Chapter 12

**Dipper Steps Up**

 **(Piedmont, California, 2014)**

* * *

 **Chapter 12**

 **From the Journals of Dipper Pines:** _Friday, May 16—Well, really it's nearly Saturday—11:50 p.m. and I'm still not asleep. Man, I have neglected this Journal! It's been a long time since I've written anything, so let me see what I need to say to catch up a little._

 _OK, to start with, I was ready to pack it in after that miserable game against the Pirates. Coach Waylund knew something was up and he told me to come and talk about whatever it was—but after the weekend, on Monday. He wouldn't let me just quit then and there._

 _So, on the drive home I told Mom and Dad that I wanted to quit. Dad sort of shrugged it off, but Mom said, "If you do, you're going to regret it later. You'd better think about that."_

 _And the moment we were alone together, Mabel grabbed me by both shoulders and shook me. "Broseph! You CAN'T quit! You_ _—_ _are_ _—NOT_ _—_ _a_ _—_ _quitter!"_

I pushed away from her. " _I'm not any good. Even when I DO something good, it's a fluke!"_

 _Now, that same afternoon something happened that made a little bit of difference. Mom had been worried because Mabel's eye got all swollen and she complained that things looked blurry, so she'd made an appointment with Dr. O'Leary, her optometrist, to check Mabel out. He's about the only optometrist in town who has office hours on Saturdays, because he doesn't work on Mondays and he sees a lot of school kids._

 _Anyway, that afternoon we went into the office, and after the checkup, Dr. O'Leary said Mabel's eye hadn't been damaged, it was just the initial swelling, BUT—she was farsighted! Not that bad, I mean her vision wasn't totally impaired, but things up close were hard for her to focus on. He said contacts would be great for her, and since the prescription was simple, he had a starter kit she could use to adjust to them and her regular prescription would be ready next week._

 _Then he looked at me and said since we were twins, I probably should have an exam, too, and he could work me in._

 _Sitting in the chair and reading the little letters and numbers, I discovered that I couldn't see as well as I thought I could. Because—wait for it—I'm NEARSIGHTED, nearly the same prescription as Mabel in both eyes, but opposite! It's harder for me to focus on things in the distance. My vision without correction is 20/40, the same as Mabel's. So I got a starter kit, too, with contacts that corrected for myopia (that's what nearsightedness is called, I learned)._

 _Well, the kit had three sets of lenses, a lens cleaning solution, a soaking solution, and eye drops. Mabel and I tried the lenses there in the office, and I have to tell you, getting used to contacts is hard. Worst part is learning how to put them in! But we wore our contacts for a few hours that afternoon, and I was amazed to notice that I could make out individual leaves on trees at quite a distance._

 _Mabel had called Chuck, and we walked over to his house after dinner. She told him I was gonna quit. Chuck said, "You can't do it, Dipper. The team needs you."_

" _The team doesn't need a loser," I said._

 _He sounded mad: "And you're NOT a loser! Man, do you think you're the only player ever to get rattled? I can't count the times I screwed up because I let my head get out of the game! Listen, you know why Coach Waylund sent you in to pitch? I told him he should do it! That play from second to home showed you could throw fast and hard—and when you're not shook, your accuracy is good."_

" _He practiced a whole lot," Mabel said. "Knocking down milk bottles at a carnival. He got real good at that!"_

" _Mabel!" I said, not wanting her to bring up the panda duck, Waddles, and the time-travel guy._

She put on a huffy expression and with her hands on her hips, she said, " _Well, you did!"_

 _Long story short, we went out in the back yard and Chuck brought out a net bag full of baseballs, more than a dozen, ranging from old and dirty-brown to nearly new, and he had me pitch at his target. I got every ball through the strike zone in the cutout. Then he had Mabel put on a catcher's mitt—it was a little small on her, because it was an old one—and she caught for me. Chuck started to coach me. He showed me how to hold the ball, where to put my fingers along the seam, and how to give it a little twist, and in half an hour I was pitching curve balls._

" _Let's do this every afternoon that you're not practicing," Chuck told me. "You've got what it takes, man. Confidence is all. That's all you need."_

 _"I'll drag him over!" Mabel promised._

 _So…that afternoon I wore my contacts for three hours. Next day at school I put them in around two o'clock and wore them in practice. And . . . I didn't suck at batting!_

 _I mean, I found that with my vision corrected, I could track the ball a lot better. Coach Waylund was smiling. "Pines, what did you want to tell me?"_

 _I admitted I had thought about quitting. "But—I changed my mind," I said. "Chuck wants to coach me on the side. And my sister won't give up on me. So, I'll stick it out. If the other guys want me on the team."_

 _They grabbed their bottles and squirted water on me and roughed up my hair and saw my birthmark and didn't even laugh. They made me take the mound, and I struck out X-man and Jon J in six pitches. I thought they were just goofing to cheer me up, but they swore they had tried to get a hit off me. They and the others said if I quit the team I'd have to move from Piedmont and change my name or they'd track me down and drag me back. But Bobby said the best thing, real quietly: "We need you, man. We're not a team without you."_

 _OK, so I didn't quit after all, and from that time forward, we went on to rack up a decent record: we've won seventeen games and lost six, a lot better than last year. Now, tomorrow we meet the Anderson Athletics, our last game. If we win, we're third in the league for the year. If we lose, they are. People tell me if we pull it off, it will be the first time in fifteen years Piedmont finishes in the top three. It's not a championship, but for us it's the big game. And I can't sleep._

 _Let's see, what else . . . Wendy reports that the ghost of her great-great whatever is quiet and has not reappeared. But she also said "We visited my mom's grave last week. I got the strangest vibe. Didn't see him, but, man, I know Archibald was there with us, and he was calm and happy. We did good, Dip!"_

 _And Mabel and Chuck are always together. She's with us when Chuck coaches me, and during our off times they go to the mall or to movies or she teaches him how to dance. She's knitted him a sweater. Of course. It has an extra-extra big left sleeve for his cast, and it has a shooting star arching over a baseball with a smiling human face. He wears it everywhere, even though it's hot now._

 _Oh, next Monday his cast is due to come off, and then he'll be doing physical therapy for at least a couple of months. The doctors think he'll be ready to play baseball again by next fall._

 _All right, I didn't want to write about this next thing, because I don't even like to think about it. But here goes._

 _One thing worries me. Mom and Dad have agreed that we can go back to Gravity Falls, and I HAVE to, I mean, that's where Wendy is . . . but I'm not sure Mabel will want to leave Piedmont and Chuck._

 _I haven't asked her about that. We still have nearly two weeks, and . . . well, I'll ask her soon. Maybe after the game. I'll go up for the summer even if she doesn't, but man, it'll be lonely. I mean, I didn't break up our baseball team, but this could kinda break up the Mystery Twins._

 _Gotta try to get some sleep!_

* * *

The season finisher was an away game, due to begin in the early afternoon, after a long bus ride north to Anderson Consolidated High, tucked in the broad valley north of San Francisco. The team horsed around on the way—and Chuck and Mabel had hitched a ride aboard the bus with the team. Whenever they were stopped, Mabel went up and down the aisle in her cheerleader outfit high-fiving everyone. Jon J winced and yelped, and Mabel said, "Sorry! I high-five hard!"

Mabel had done something pretty neat. She'd ripped the seam in Chuck's shirt so he could pull it over his cast, and then she sewed it up again. Dipper had also bought a new baseball cap and had given it to Chuck, so in uniform and with his cap on, he looked like a full-fledged member of the team again.

And in fact he was—Waylund had named him assistant coach. Chuck was flying high, laughing and joking with the rest of them. They had prepared for the game—had studied the Athletics' videos from earlier in the season and from last year—and they knew they had a hard job ahead, but their spirits were surging and the bus overflowed with confidence. Well, except in the third seat back from the driver, where Dipper stared out the window wondering _Am I gonna mess this one up?_ He kept yawning, because he'd had only four hours of sleep.

They stepped out into a bright hot Saturday afternoon and went to the visitors' dressing room. The driver had cut the run close, and they had just a few minutes to warm up. "Wonder if Mom and Dad are here?" Mabel said when the team sat in the dugout.

"Probably," Dipper said.

Anderson Consolidated was a new school with a big grandstand—packed with spectators, most of them Anderson fans, of course. They couldn't see Mr. or Mrs. Pines anywhere. Well, if their mom and dad came in late, they'd still see the end of the game, which would be the important part. . ..

* * *

Dipper would warm the bench first, while Jon J took over pitching duties. Dipper studied the faces of the other team. From the Panthers' close review of the game videos, he knew the Athletics by name. When Piedmont won the coin toss, Jon J said, "We'll take the field." That had always been Chuck's choice, too.

The first Athletic up to bat was a solid, chunky kid named Yank. He looked sort of heavy to be a good player—but on the first pitch, he smashed a beautiful double deep into left field and made it to second standing up. Then a guy named Thad came to the plate. Jon J shuffled his cleats on the mound, leaned in, and seemed to find the groove. He struck Thad out with three pitches. Next was a guy named Benny, who had a good at-bat record. He got a little piece of a curve ball, but Petey on first base caught it and held Yank at second. A tall, lean kid named Carlos stepped into the box and took two pitches before—surprise!—he smacked a double, too, scoring Yank. The next guy, Doug, held on for three fouls and two balls before striking out.

The Panthers came up to bat—and the mood turned dismal. Mike went down swinging, Petey grounded out, and JD hit what looked like at least a double, but the center fielder, José, with his back right against the fence, made a terrific high jump, perfectly timed, and came down with the ball in his glove for the out.

The game turned into a grim battle in the second. The Athletics put two men on, and then one of their power hitters, a kid named Marcos, slammed a home run, and the score favored the Athletics, 4-0. The fielders and Jon J held them at that, though they made two more singles before the Panthers retired them. In the bottom of the inning, Piedmont seemed to be on the way back: after getting to second, Barb ran for third when John J singled—but the Athletics were on top of it and tagged Barb out before he reached base. Dipper came to the plate, sweating and nervous, but he'd been practicing a lot.

The pitcher obviously had seen some footage of him at bat, and he grinned. He tempted Dipper with a fastball at perfect height but maybe an inch out of the zone. Dipper didn't go for it. _The contacts help! That and Chuck's coaching._ And to prove that, on the next pitch Dipper not only hit the ball, but lined it hard between the center fielder and the right fielder. He slid into second a moment ahead of the throw, and he heard yells—not as loud as cheers for the Athletics, but _Mabel_ was going nuts—as Jon J scored. Unfortunately, Hi-Ho then struck out, and Bobby popped one right into the third baseman's glove. At the end of the inning, Piedmont was still down 4-1.

The third passed without Piedmont managing a run—but the Athletics padded their lead to 6-1.

And then came the fourth inning, with Dipper in at second base. Benny stepped up to bat for the Athletics, and Jon J put him out with three good fastballs. Carlos, looking determined, took his place in the box. Jon J put one strike past him, then tried a curve ball—and Carlos swung on it and sent a ball into deep left field, which Jayden Dufresne lost momentarily in the sun. He missed the catch, and Carlos wound up on second. Doug came up to bat and got a single with a hit to the gap between center field and left field, with JD, still mad about his missing that catch, too slow to close in. The next batter hit one to shallow center field, and Dipper saw he could take it. He blasted back, leaped up, and caught the ball while still in mid-air.

And there . . . their luck ran out. The Athletic named Andy got a sweet piece of the ball and sent it out of the park for a home run, also sending the two base runners across home plate. Jon J looked tired and frustrated, and he walked Marcos. Though the Athletics didn't manage another un, they were now up 9 to 1. And the Panthers came to bat and quickly were shut out as Kenk, Mike, and Petey all struck, out one after the other.

Chuck took a moment to speak to the team during the turnaround: "Hold it together, guys. We can still do this!"

Nobody wanted to make a liar of their friend.

The fifth began well, as the Athletic named Brick fanned the plate and struck out, but Lewis, the next batter, got a good shot and stretched it into a double. Then Johnny and Pinky both singled, and Lewis headed for home. Dipper took the throw from right field, spun and whipped the ball home—and Bobby tagged Lewis out by a hair.

Coach Waylund called time and motioned for Dipper. Waylund put his hand on Jon J's shoulder. "Want to take a rest?" he said kindly.

Jon J nodded. He tossed the ball to Dipper. "Go get 'em, Dip," he said. "Do it for me and Chuck!"

"I'll try," Dipper promised.

Some of the Athletics were laughing as he stepped onto the mound. Yank grinned at him, while the Athletics fans cat-called. Dipper leaned in, wound up, and whipped a fastball right past Yank, whose expression looked startled. Next Dipper sent in a beautiful curve that broke just right. Yank fanned it. Now he looked mad. Dipper took his time. He wound up—and blazed another fastball in, a little high, and Yank swung—

"Strike three!" the ump yelled, and the Athletics fans shouted their extreme disapproval of the call and suggested various cruel punishments for the umpire, though Yank, shaking his head, just shrugged and walked back to the dugout.

And then the game started to turn around. At last. In the bottom of the fifth, both JD and Barb doubled, sending JD in for a run. Jon J stepped up looking cool and, like a machine, drilled a single. X-man hit a nice fly, but the right fielder nabbed it. Dipper nailed another line drive and singled on it, and Barb scored from third. Then Bobby took up the bat and on the third pitch blasted one over José's best leap and over the fence. Dipper pumped his fist as he trotted around the bases and across the plate. Yes! The Panthers were on a roll! The Panthers had clawed their way to five more runs—and the inning wasn't over. Dub got to first, and Big W sent him to second when he got a single, too. Tom-Tom smacked a double, scoring Dub—but then, with the score Anderson 9, Piedmont 7, Jimmy grounded out.

Oh, they were still behind. But—the Panthers had a chance.

The sixth inning passed in a whirl, with each team adding a run, winding up with a 10-8 score, Anderson's favor.

It all came down to the crucial seventh inning. A nervous Dipper took the mound and looked over at Mabel on the sidelines. She smiled broadly, then reached her right hand to her left shoulder and—

 _Pat. Pat._

He understood and returned the gesture. Then he got down to business.

José faced him, and when Dipper tried a fastball, José swung hard, cracking a line drive almost right down the center—but Dipper threw himself off the mound and dived, and the ball smacked hard into his glove at waist height. Dipper stood and as he dusted himself off, he heard—

Some grudging cheers! Coming from the Anderson supporters!

He had hit the ground on his shoulder, but he rotated his arm and it felt OK. Still, he discovered his control wasn't quite as solid as before: Andy smacked a double. Then Marcos got a single off a curve ball that wasn't quite as sharp as it should have been. The next batter, Steve, popped one to first base, an easy out that held Andy at third and Marcos at first. Joseph paused outside the batter's box and murmured a prayer—he crossed himself—and then stepped up to the plate. Dipper blazed a fastball past him for a called strike, and then, responding to Bobby's signal, tried another fastball, a little lower but still in the zone. Joseph wheeled the bat into it, sending a screaming ball right down the middle—

 _Too high!_

 _JUMP!_

With a weird sense of slow motion, the leaping Dipper felt as though he were flying. He stretched every muscle in his straining arm—

The sizzling ball whacked into his glove—

 _He was losing it—_

Dipper clapped his right hand over the glove, trapping the ball, hit the ground, and staggering, somehow kept his footing and the ball.

He'd made the most important out. And somehow, above all the shouts and screaming, he heard a voice he knew:

" _Way to go, Dipper!"_

 _Oh, my God! Wendy's in the stands!_


	13. Chapter 13

**Dipper Steps Up**

 **(Piedmont, California, 2014)**

 **Chapter 13**

* * *

Chuck had a quick word as the Panthers ran to the dugout: "Guys! Two runs! Can we do this?"

A chorus of "Yeah!" came back.

Chuck shook his head. "I can't hear that! Tell me we can do this!"

At his side, Mabel raised her hand. "One! Two! Three!"

And as she swept her hand down, everyone yelled out together: _"WE CAN DO THIS!"_

Chuck grinned. "Jon J, step up to the plate!" But as the pitcher walked deliberately out, testing three bats before choosing one, Chuck said quietly to Dipper, "What's wrong?"

"Huh?" Dipper had been sweeping the grandstand with an anxious gaze. "Uh. Nothing. Just—you know, trying to see where . . . people are sitting."

"Keep your head in the game," Chuck said, slapping him on the shoulder. "Remember that!"

Dipper settled on the bench. _I'll be up after Jon J and X-man. What if I screw it all up in front of Wendy?_

After the first pitch—a called strike—it took Jon J only thirty seconds to end his turn at bat, though to Dipper that dragged on like three hours.

And Jon J ended it spectacularly, with a blazing shot right down the left foul line, though it stayed in play. It bounced off the chain-link fence, the left fielder, flustered, bobbled it, lost it, and threw to the wrong place—first base, which Jon J had already left behind, and the throw was short and the baseman had to chase it—

Jon J wound up on third base, leaning over with his hands on his knees, his chest heaving for air. He had probably set a personal-best speed record with that run. The dugout went crazy.

As X-man went past, Dipper said, "Make us proud, man!"

X-man smiled and nodded as if that were all he needed. He didn't waste time, either, but smashed a hit into deep right field. The Athletics were either tired or overconfident—or maybe shaken by the Panthers' performance in the sixth. X-man stretched what might have been a single into a double, and Jon J crossed the plate and came into the dugout with everybody jumping on him and pounding his back.

Everyone except Dipper. He stepped out. Only Chuck seemed to notice him. He just said, "Head in the game, Dip. You got this."

"Head in the game," Dipper mumbled.

 _Sun is so hot today. Not in my eyes, though. This bat feels so heavy! And I feel like Mabel when she was in the golf cart that time—about to puke!_

His hands were soggy with sweat. He rubbed dirt on them and pulled on his batting gloves, took two practice swings, and stepped into the box. The Athletics pitcher scowled at him.

 _This guy likes to brush you back from the plate. If he crowds me, should I jerk back in time or would it be better to be hit and take a base?_

Sure enough, the first fastball whistled in—and Dipper had to step back to avoid it. "Ball!" the umpire shouted.

 _OK, he won't try that one on the next pitch. He doesn't have much of a curve, and he aims for the bottom third of the zone. Eye on the ball. Eye on the—_

The pitcher kicked high and bent low and the ball came in right in the center of the zone, but low. Dipper tensed, judged the moment, and swung as hard as he could—

 _Crack!_

He knew it was going into the gap, but he was already running and had no time to watch it. Round first base, and the center fielder was just coming up from the ground with the ball— _Faster!_ _He's gonna throw me out!_

People were screaming. The ball was in the air, the second baseman reaching up his glove—

Dipper hit the dirt and slid into the bag—

And he heard the second baseman yell, "Shit!"

Dipper got to his feet—not even winded—and started dusting himself off. "Language," he said mildly.

The Athletics player shot him a look that could have killed. Dipper saw that X-man had scored. Tie game!

Hi-Ho, up next, made a valiant try, but managed only a pop-up to shallow left field, and the shortstop caught it. One man down.

Bobby paused on his way to the plate to look Dipper's way and give him a thumbs-up. Mabel did a fist-pump.

Something amazing happened. Dipper, standing just off second, straightened up and looked around.

And at that moment, somehow everything around him reminded him of—Gravity Falls. On a day when there was no Weirdmageddon, no chase through the woods on a golf cart, no competition between Pacifica and Mabel on the mini-golf course, no baleful ghost to conquer, no dance to make him anxious about asking Wendy for just one dance. No, not a day like that, but one of the clear late afternoons he and Mabel loved, a day to lie on their backs on soft, fresh-smelling grass and look at clouds with Wendy. A day to laugh and feel at home and loved and safe. One of those beautiful days that you hoped would go on and on and on because it was too sweet to leave behind.

Everything seemed so peaceful. The game was just a game, fun but not the be-all and end-all. And he had friends—real friends! For the first time in his life he had more than a couple of friends, and they were all right here, in California, on this hot afternoon in May, and they were feeling good.

And he knew how to make them feel even better.

That all passed in a flash, before Bobby even crouched at the plate—the catcher liked to challenge a pitcher by narrowing the strike zone—and well before the first pitch flew.

Bobby swung, the bat smacked the ball, and Dipper saw it was a hard-hit line drive to the pitcher's left, squarely between first and second, and it hit hard and started to bounce, at least a single for sure, but by that time Dipper had launched himself.

He got to third, looked over, and saw Bobby stepping back to first base, grinning. He immediately led off first, dancing, goofing. The pitcher glared at him.

Dipper led off third.

The pitcher wound up—and Bobby tagged up, then led off even more. The pitch, a strike—and Bobby took off for second. Dipper saw that the catcher was throwing to second, and he hunched down and ran faster than he had ever run in his life, even that time in the Fearamid with a monstrous Bill Cipher on his and Mabel's heels—the crowd screamed, he heard the pitcher yell in startled surprise—the catcher was reaching for the ball—Dipper went into a slide again—

And the throw was high and the catcher missed it and the ump bellowed, "Safe!"

And the scoreboard blinked to the final score: ANDERSON 10, VISITORS 11. Dipper's steal had won the game.

Before he could even get to his feet, Dipper was picked up—the cheering team hoisted him in the air and paraded him around. Above everything, Dipper could hear Mabel: "That's my brother! In your face, Athletics! That's Dipper Pines!"

The team wouldn't set him down. They carried him into the dugout. They dumped the water jug over him, making him muddy rather than dusty. Coach shook his dripping hand. "Good season, Pines," he said. "I'll look for you at tryouts in the fall. We're gonna need a team captain."

"But Chuck—" _No. Chuck won't be JV next year. He'll be Varsity._

"Chuck recommended you," Coach said. He turned around, clapping his hands. "Good game, men! Next year we're gonna be number one! Now hit the showers!"

* * *

When he came out dressed, with his wet gear in his game bag, he saw Mabel talking to their mom, dad, both Grunkles—and Wendy, who yelped, "There he is!" She hugged him, took off the trapper hat, and gave him a playful noogie. "Good goin', dude! I'm gonna have to turn into a baseball fan!"

"Hey, Dipper," Mabel said, "Chuck and me are gonna ride back with Mom and Dad. Grunkle Stan will drive you home."

"Yeah," Stan said, "Poindexter an' me are gonna check into a motel for the night. Tomorrow afternoon we gotta fly back to Gravity Falls so's Wendy won't miss school on Monday. She's gonna stay with your folks tonight."

"Stanley," Grunkle Ford said, "I'd feel more secure if you'd let Wendy drive. After all, we're in a rental car—"

"Brainiac, please!" Stanley said. "She's too young to drive a rental! You gotta be like twenty-five!"

"Oh—but I let her drive _my_ rental," Stanford said.

"Did she get caught?"

"Well, no, she's a good driver—"

"Then forget about it! Me, I can't afford any points on my license, so I'm drivin'. She'll just hafta sit in the back seat with Dipper."

Oh, that was just such bad news. Dipper couldn't help grinning like an idiot.

On the drive back, Wendy told him that Mabel had called and begged her to get there if she could. "So I talked to Stan, an' when he found out this was like a big game, he talked Stanford into coming—"

"And pickin' up the tab for the airfare! Hah!" Stan said from behind the wheel.

"And, dude, I'm so glad we did! I mean, I've never been a big baseball fan, but that was cool! Is it always this exciting?"

"This was the most exciting game I've ever been in," Dipper said truthfully.

* * *

That evening, after dinner, Dipper, Mabel, and Wendy went for another walk. As twilight came on, they rambled another trail in Piedmont Park. Wendy said, "Mabel, you gotta level with him now. You said you would."

"Yeah, I know," Mabel said. "Dipper—it's about this summer."

"You don't want to go back to Gravity Falls," Dipper said flatly. "I figured. Because of Chuck."

"What? No! Well, yeah, kinda. But listen: I just want to stay here until Chuck finishes his therapy. That'll be the last week in June. Then I'll come up to Gravity Falls for the rest of the summer. Grunkle Ford will buy an airline ticket for me. Brobro, I can't live without a trip to Gravity Falls—but Dipper, it's Chuck. I—I have a little crush on him. That's why I asked Wendy if she could come down today."

"Yeah," Wendy said. "So most of June, you'll be in Gravity Falls without Mabel. To make up for it, when you run into some crazy mystery or other and need a partner—here I am, Dip."

"You—you'd go on mystery hunts and stuff? With, uh, with me?" Dipper asked.

She shoved his shoulder playfully. "Yeah, dude! Hey, I'm no Mabel, but in a tight spot, I'm good with an axe. So until, like, the last week of June, no Mystery Twins. How about Mystery Team? I'll go with you on every—investigation? Quest? Whatever, man! It's a promise! Deal?"

"Deal!" They high-fived.

On the last Thursday evening in May, the day that final exams ended, the team presented Dipper with a trophy—a gold-colored pitcher in a wind-up pose atop a mahogany pedestal with a brass plate inscribed "DIPPER PINES / MVP /ANDERSON VS PIEDMONT/PIEDMONT 11, ANDERSON 10/MAY 17, 2014."

That was a high point, as the game had been a high point. As was Chuck's congratulating the new JV team captain for next season. As was Dad's buying copies of the newspaper with a glowing account of the game and Dipper's part in it and distributing them to everyone he knew. As was school ending early on May 30, the last day. As were a lot of things.

Still, on Saturday, May 31, the bus trip up to Gravity Falls was long and lonely with no goofy, cheerful sister next to him. Low point.

But when, late in the day, the bus stopped in downtown Gravity Falls, and a beautiful grinning redhead met him and said, "Hey, dork—need a lift to the Shack?"

And when she hugged him tight and said "Missed you so much, Dipper! Welcome back!"

Well, there's no point quite as high as that.

* * *

 _The End_

 ** _AUTHOR'S NOTE:_**

A big, big thanks to fairlyoddfan2010, who inspired and actually co-wrote this with me-all the baseball details and play-by-play descriptions are his. Trivia: I put four guest characters in this: the four policemen who searched for Chuck when he was missing. The uniformed cops were Joe Friday and Frank Smith from _Dragnet_ , the old version that ran on both radio and TV in the 1950s. Of course, in the show they were detectives, not beat patrolmen, but I thank them for their appearance here. The two detectives were Stephen Louis Carella and Meyer Meyer from Ed McBain's _87th Precinct_ book series-the best and most sustained police-procedural novels in American literary history. My thanks to Steve and Meyer, too!


End file.
